


Blood On My Name

by gingertintedglasses



Category: Captain America (Movies), Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, Blink and you'll miss a Darcy/Steve moment, Bucky as a Tsingano, Canon-Typical Promiscuity, Courteseans, Fate & Destiny, Implied Sam/Sharon, M/M, Mention of Tony Stark - Freeform, Rebecca and Natasha will make an unstoppable duo when Rebecca is older, SHIELD as Phedre's Boys, Sharon is a good sister, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve as a courtesan, Young Rebecca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingertintedglasses/pseuds/gingertintedglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve didn't hesitate to sit himself across from dark hair and wild eyes.</p><p>"Tell me what you know."  He placed the offering from his assignation on the table between them.</p><p>The Tsingano smiled wide and wolfish, closing his hand slowly but firmly over the coin purse.</p><p>"My name is Bucky.  And you will be the death of me."</p><p>___</p><p>Bucky is a Tsingano fortune-teller.  Steve belongs to the Night Court, whose adepts provide pleasure to patrons. </p><p>Or, he thought he was, until a revelation throws everything Steve knew into disarray and threatens the life of the wild-eyed man he fell in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fates and Crossed Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riparian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riparian/gifts).



> This story is an AU set in the Kushiel's Legacy world - you don't need to have read the books to understand what's going on in this story. 
> 
> A huge thanks to my fabulous, fabulous beta @whatasaur who helped expand it into the story it is now - I could not have gotten it this far without you!
> 
> And thank you, thank you, thank you to @heartofthemirror, who made some amazing artwork to go along with this story for the Stucky Big Bang 2016! Take a look over on Heart's art blog here:
> 
> http://limerenceandscorn.tumblr.com/post/149253877581/an-illustration-i-did-for
> 
> The title of this story comes from the Brothers Bright song by the same name. 
> 
> And to @riparian, who encouraged me to participate in the Big Bang to begin with: this is all your fault. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: murderonthemattress because a consistent username is too difficult a thing to manage for the likes of me.

This sort of thing didn’t usually interest Steve. Fates and crossed stars and coins lost in favor of a deceptive word. But the Longest Night was nearly upon them, and with it a new year, a new slate. He was allowed to indulge himself, on occasion.

The Tsingano wouldn’t have usually interested him, either: his dark, shining hair falling into his eyes and a smile that was as much mischief as fraud. But for the teasing call, _A fortune, for a sunlit prince_!, Steve would never have looked over.

“It is ill luck,” Sharon huffed.

“That’s a tale as tall as an _anguisette’s_.” Steve didn’t bother to look back and see the expression he knew would be twisted onto her features.

For all that Sharon was circumspect—the most, in Dahlia House—he didn’t harbor any illusions that she would not hesitate to alert their Dowayne to his activities if she thought it prudent. 

“If it bothers you so, I will gladly meet you for the evening meal and you may take your leave of me now.”

Sharon inclined her head to the Tsingano still waiting patiently for their attention. “If it’s ill luck you’re looking for, I won’t abandon you. Someone needs to keep a weather eye on the likes of you.”

Steve dug two gold coins out of his pocket and turned back to the Tsingano.

“My fortune?”

The Tsingano took in Steve’s raised eyebrow and smiled shark-like. “Sit, and I’ll tell you what you wish to hear.”

Steve glanced back to Sharon—a bright, golden force of will backed by the bustle and crowd of the marketplace—and stepped into the dark, cozy space of the Tsingano’s stall.

The tented fabric above them let in only tiny shards of light; Steve felt as though he were in a vast, shaded forest, the crush of market-goers dropping away. Even the scent of the wares: cheeses and meats, metal and leather, seemed crowded out in favor of something darker and enveloping, spice and clean pine.

Steve had barely sat down before the other man when the Tsingano leaned forward unbidden, with blue eyes that Steve felt looked somehow _through_ him.

“Interesting,” the Tsingano mused. “The Midwinter Masque is still several days away.” His eyes shone, mirthful and deep, up at Steve. “Are you afraid to take off your disguise, lest you be unprepared for the event?” 

“What?” Steve didn’t take his eyes from the fortune-teller. Sharon was just outside the heavy canvas drapes of the stall, Steve knew, but she may as well have been across the Straits in Alba.  

The Tsingano had his hand, then, inspecting fingers and palm carefully. “Dignity, to be sure. But grace and glory standing firm behind it, yes?”

Steve’s throat felt dry. “I don’t know what you’re talki—“

“Kushiel is not the only one of Blessed Elua’s Companions to grace this earth with an heir. Azza seems to have graced Terre D’Ange with one of his own, though you may not yet accept it as truth, you _do_ suspect it. He is close to you. Dahlia House was the perfect place for you; you may have begun your life twisted and misshapen, but your spine would never have remained so slumped with the pride of Azza standing you up.”

Steve leaned forward against his will. There was no way for this Tsingano to know of his health. Nor of the way his heart raced when a patron understood what it was to deserve Steve’s ministrations, to see it as a gift and not merely a transaction. To know he felt as though Azza was there, a part of him, _guiding_ him.

“How do you know this?”

“You asked for your fortune. Did you think I would mislead you? Shame my people?” The Tsingano dropped his chin and looked up at Steve through his lashes. “Do you think I would dare dissemble, faced with a command from one so rare as you?”

It was a whisper that punched clear through Steve’s chest and left something alight inside of him. It took swallowing several times before Steve could find his voice. 

“What else? Please.” He should not, he knew. Sharon would disapprove and he scarce believed it himself. But something about this Tsingano—something bright and dancing behind his eyes, the truth in his words and the smile—seemed to draw Steve further in despite himself. 

“Before your marque has been finished, you will be cast out.” The Tsingano raised his hand from Steve’s palm. “If you remember nothing else, remember the will of Blessed Elua, and you will find resolution.” 

Steve felt the space closing in around them, his focus narrowing to the man before him. The vision could not be true, Steve could not let it be so. Completing his marque was the only way to purchase his freedom from the Night Court and Steve had plans. Vague to be sure, but something contented and quiet with Sharon beside him. Always, with his sister beside him. But Steve could not pull himself from this man and his disruptive vision, encompassing and wild and dangerous for Steve though he was.

“I thought it was ill luck for a Tsingano man to read one’s fortune.” Sharon’s voice sounded clipped and sharp from behind him, breaking the thing between them that had them leaned forward over the small table; so close Steve was abruptly aware of the scant inches between himself and the Tsingano.

Steve didn’t recall hearing her step in behind the heavy drapes but he was glad for it. Her presence broke his concentration and he wasn’t sure if he’d been there mere moments or hours, enraptured.

The Tsingano merely smiled, eyes crinkling and sparking, smile all teeth and dark promises. “We were cursed from the moment we drew breath, he and I.”

With little more than a warning glare, Sharon snatched Steve up and away from the Tsingano.

She pulled Steve along as fast as she could, out of the marketplace and back towards the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers.

Steve followed her blindly and only took note of their surroundings when they were nearly at the great entryway to Dahlia House. The journey from the depths of the marketplace towards the higher houses on Mont Nuit had taken nearly an hour and Steve was still struggling to get his bearings. Steve was sure there was cobblestone underfoot but he couldn’t feel it.

“I never should have let you speak to him, he—“ She stopped herself from adding more, and began to berate him instead. “Someone is going to see you and ask questions. You have exactly _five minutes_ to get yourself together,” she hissed.

There was no way for him to have known. He couldn’t have. He was a Tsingano and there were precious few who knew just who Steve was, if the tales Sharon had told him were true.

“Steve. _Steven_. Look at me.” Sharon had always been bright and unyielding and _sure_. Her voice shook ever so slightly on his name. “Do you remember, being so young and sitting _abeyante_ for hours, even after our feet had gone numb? Serving _joie_ and a smile without letting on we’d barely gotten the feeling back in our feet? You must remember that now. Straight to our chambers and _don’t_ speak to a soul until I come for you.” 

Steve nodded mutely, and stepped forward, head swimming in the dark waters of prophecy. 

*****

Sharon knew only because she had been there.  Steve knew the story because it had been his favorite, as a child, but one that sat sour and stale in his mouth as he aged.  

She was attendant to the Dowayne, the night Steve arrived.  She was there only because the Dowayne assumed that at the age of six she was too young to remember, but the gravity of such a thing stuck in her mind, as deep as the bone-ache in her toes of kneeling _abeyante_.   

_The woman had arrived shrouded, cloaked in deep purple, hood so deep not even the light from the wall braziers pierced it._

_"You think to bring him here?  What can I offer him more than you can?" Dowayne Nicholas’ voice, deep and hushed, broke the silence that stretched._

_"A chance. He can disappear here, among the others. The Court is no place for one so fragile."_

_"The line of Courcel is made of steel."_

_"He is not_ _—_ _"_  

_The Dowayne raised his hand.  "Ah.  I see.  So it is not only his well-being in the face of political intrigue that worries you, but the truth of his lineage."_

_The faceless woman held forth the babe, laying him gently into the Dowayne's arms.  Her fingers trembled as they released the tiny bundle._

_"What it cost his health it has paid in his features."  He sighed.  "Dahlia House will welcome him.  Do you want him to know of his heritage?"_

_"He was orphaned, and left on your doorstep."_

_The Dowayne nodded.  "So be it. He will someday make the discovery, nonetheless."_  

_"Dahlia House is discreet.  I do not expect that he will."_

_The woman turned then, and left.  It was not until the doors to the chamber were nearly closed that her shoulders began to shake. The Dowayne beckoned Sharon from where she’d stood in the shadows._

_Sharon's first glimpse of the babe was all shining blonde and brilliant blue.  And gaunt, thin features. Even for a baby._

_"Your brother has been found, Sharon."  The Dowayne smiled kindly._

_"My brother?"_  

 _"I did not want to name our search, lest we be unable to find him.  But look_ — _he has been brought to us.  You are not alone any longer."_

It was not until he was twenty, the year before his debut, that Sharon told him the truth.  That they were not siblings by blood.  That he was a Prince.  

He did not believe it, not quite.  He believed he had been abandoned by his mother, and that Sharon was not his sister by blood.  He hadn't believed that it was Victoria de la Courcel that abandoned him.  Sharon had been young, and had misheard.  Steve had been weak and fragile and on death's door more times than he could count and only by the grace of Balm House had he lived at all.  

Steve should not have had a debut at all, but for the grace of Elua who saw fit to bless him with a growth spurt two years after his peers began their time as Flowers of the Night Court in earnest.  Even still, the Dowayne hesitated to allow him to debut.  It was not until he proved himself a perfect specimen of Dahlia House—unyielding in his pursuit to be granted status as an adept of the Night Court—that the Dowayne bowed and allowed it.  

And she was there.  At his debut.  The Queen.  She happened to be visiting the Dowayne, purely on business, of course, and was present.  She did not stay for the bidding.

_"See?!"  Sharon had whispered, taking him by his elbow and kissing his cheek in celebratory greeting.  "You see?  It's true.  Why else would she have come?  Why else would she have stayed?"_

Steve still did not believe it.  Not quite.

Until today.  Until the Tsingano called him a sunlit prince.  

Stories of Imriel and Sidonie de la Courcel, regents of Terre D’Ange from centuries before, had him so distracted that he was nearly late for his evening assignation.  

 _Sun princess_ , Imriel had called Sidonie. For her shining, golden hair.  

A sunlit prince, and a mask.

It could not be.

***** 

No matter that Steve had been attending the Midwinter Masque since he was thirteen and allowed to serve _joie_ to glittering, costumed guests. He was as excited nearly fourteen years later as he had been the very first time.

He loved the mystery and the costumes and the _freedom_. The Masque was not just the celebration of the Longest Night; it was the one time of the year adepts could choose their own partners; no contracts or coins were requisite this night. 

Steve enjoyed his patrons, the pleasure he gave and received. After years of working towards his marque taking commissions where he could for his art, when he was too small and imperfect to earn his autonomy in the bedchamber, it was a joy and relief to earn his marque in the same way most other adepts did. 

He suspected that even after he had made his marque and his future was his choice, he would remain at Dahlia House. They had bought his life when his family did not want him and they had been kind and caring.  After buying back the price of his rescue from orphanage, he would likely remain in the only place he had called home, with the people he loved and the pleasure in which he took such pride and enjoyment.

He watched adepts of the Thirteen Houses dancing and laughing, free with their drink and food and themselves. This night was for the Thirteen Houses alone and though all adepts in Namaah's service took pride in her service, this night was still precious and favored for its decadence and freedom.

"If you think too hard, you'll never enjoy this evening." Sharon smiled at him, deep green and gold mask shimmering with any movement she made.  The House theme this year was wood elves and she made a stunning sight in her dress: high backed with a wicked, thin, deep plunge to the front. Tiny gemstones were sewn into the fabric and she gleamed like sunlight through the trees.

"You look lovely."

She passed him a thin flute of _joie_. "As do you, brother."

Steve’s mask, also green and gold, covered the top half of his face in a sweep of feathers and shimmer. His hair, much like Sharon's, had been dusted with gold and it shone like the sun itself. His tunic was the same deep green of Sharon's dress and hung loose, his pale skin beckoning from beneath the top string of the shirt that was left untied and inviting.

He tipped his glass to her before taking a sip, enjoying the pleasant burn that followed.

"And what designs do you have on this evening?" Steve watched Sharon smile wide and knowing at his question.

"I might find myself a dark corner in which to enjoy myself, and someone else. What of you?" 

"If I do not find myself the same, it will not be for lack of trying."

"Sharon." A voice, warm and calm, had both Sharon and Steve turning.

The smile that overtook Sharon's face was blinding.  "And what, pray tell, are you disguised as?"

The man kissed her hand, keeping it gently but firmly in one of his own after.  He was dressed in brilliant, rich reds and silvers that complemented his dark skin and deep brown eyes. His smile, when he laughed, was inviting and fond.  "Temptation, of course."

Sharon laughed bright and free and Steve's heart flickered: he had never heard of this man who made his sister so happy, but he was nonetheless thankful.

"I think you're not being entirely honest, but I _do_ think I want to try and coax the truth from you."

The man wrapped an arm around Sharon. "I think I might like to let you try."

Sharon finished the rest of her _joie_ in a single mouthful before giving Steve a positively impish smile.  "If you don't mind, brother, I have a man whose presence I have missed dearly and with whom I would reacquaint myself."

With a kiss to her brow, Steve took her empty flute from her. "Go. I'll never find myself any company with the beautiful likes of you standing too close."

Steve watched them go, and turned to accept a new flute of _joie_ from an adept old enough to serve, but too young to yet be inducted into Namaah’s service.

Adepts were not allowed to court one another and it made Steve both glad and worried that Sharon had found someone and had thus far kept it secret. It made him wonder how long it would last.

Adepts still courted one another, with varying degrees of success. Whenever pairs were finally discovered, the punishment was harsh, even if they were children, and Steve could only wonder what would await Sharon and her suitor if they were discovered.

He was not long in thought and instead found a most pleasant distraction in a diminutive, bright adept from Eglantine House. She was sharp-tongued and witty and kept him laughing; her dark eyes shining, creamy skin glowing in the low light.

*****

It was several days after the Masque and Steve could delay himself no longer. He waited until he knew Sharon would be asleep and slipped carefully over the garden wall, creeping through shadow and down into Night’s Doorstep.

No stalls and wares; at this hour it was all taverns and wavering drunks. 

It took Steve longer than he would have liked to find the fortune-teller again, but find him he did, sitting at the back of a pub, rolling another man's coin across his knuckles and speaking low.

Steve waited even longer until the Tsingano was alone.  When he was, Steve didn't hesitate and sat himself across from dark hair and wild eyes.

"Tell me what you know."  He placed the offering from his assignation on the table between them. 

The Tsingano smiled wide and wolfish, closing his hand slowly but firmly over the coin purse. 

"My name is Bucky.  And you will be the death of me."

*****

So much, and so little, had changed since Phedre no Delaunay and Joscelin Verreuil.  Since the Master of the Straits was a Tsingano half-breed.   

The Tsingani were no longer condemned to travel the Long Road with a wide berth from other travelers.  That did not mean they were not still reviled, still labeled thieves and liars, the word _gypsy_ spat through teeth.  In the City of Elua, they were still confined to the marketplace.  Night’s Doorstep they called it, at the foot of the Houses of the Night-Blooming Flowers.  

The Tsingano—Bucky—would scarce be welcome among the Thirteen Houses, still as married to their pedigrees as ever.  But here, he was lord and master.  The hood under which he shielded himself in the marketplace was cast off, his features bold and strong in the lamplight.  And beautiful.

Where Steve had gone bare-headed in the market, he now hid under his own deep hood.  

"Bucky.  Tell me what you know." 

"It doesn't work that way, you realize."

So he'd heard, in whispers and words-out-of-both-sides-of-one’s-mouth about the Tsingani and their ilk.   

"I don't believe you."

Bucky laughed, bright and loose, eyes sharp.  "I don't expect you would."  He held forth one hand.

Steve made no move to offer his hand. "They say the Parting of the Veils is not something the messenger has control over.  You've seen something and haven't told me all of what you've seen."  

Bucky stared unwavering at him, a small smirk etched in confidence on his face.  His hand remained extended.   

Steve, after several moments, with a sigh and a silent apology to Sharon, placed his hand in Bucky's.  

Who, quick as lightning, clasped Steve's offered hand in both of his and made a show of rubbing it between his palms, hmm-ing and ahh-ing.  

Steve jerked his hand away.  "I did not pay you for theatre."

Bucky rolled his eyes, settling one hand easily around his half-empty tankard.  "I saw you in the marketplace and thus, the Parting of the Veils. Yes, it _is_  bad luck for a Tsingani man to speak the future.  But things turned out well enough for the Master of the Straits when he was speaking the _dromonde_ as a mere street urchin, so I'll try _my_  luck." 

"And?"

"You heard me well enough before.  The Longest Night has passed, yet you still wear a mask.  But more than that, you do not know the image of your freedom."

The air in his lungs left Steve in a rush.  Bucky could not have known; another impossibility.  The marque he had been earning assignation by assignation he did not know the design of.  Did not show any but the marquist, per order of the Dowayne.  

"How—"

"You are made of sunlight: your skin, your hair, a sense of _truth_  like a beacon in the night.  Only the blind could not see what you really are."  Bucky grinned, knowing and sly.  "There are an unfortunate number of blind men, amongst the nobility and the Thirteen Houses, for all their high breeding and aggrandizing."   

The Tsingani were master tale-tellers; Steve had known it since he was a child, basking in the theatre and glamor of any number of Mendicant's tales when he was young enough to think escaping to the markets was the height of misbehavior. 

But this was different.  There was an enchanting _something_  in Bucky's tone.  He felt as though he weren't breathing, as though he were rooted in place.  As though something inside of him had been lit on fire at the Tsingano's words in the marketplace and a deep hunger awakened in a place he had not known to be empty before.  

"If you ask it of me," Bucky continued, "I will tell you what they are inking upon your skin.  Show you, even." The hungry, wolfish smile reappeared. "If you ask me prettily enough."

Steve felt his cheeks heat.  "What makes you think I haven't seen it for myself already?"

"You are far too intelligent a man to ask a question you already know the answer to."

"But _how_  do you know that I—"

"—Light and dark, Steven.  Goodness, and treachery.  Truth, and lies."  Bucky gestured between them at each comparison.

"I do not believe that you are those things, simply because you are a Tsingano." 

"Birth does not make a man, says you?"

Steve raised a challenging eyebrow. "You are far too experienced a man to ask a question you already know the answer to."  

The smile on Bucky's face stretched and widened to accommodate his teeth, stark and shark-like against his dark features.  "What, then, makes a man?"   

"The quality of his life."

“No.” Bucky stood then, in a sweep so fluid Steve could have wept for the hours he practiced being half as graceful.  He regarded Steve from under his lashes, guarded and rueful.  "The nature of his death."  With a motion akin to sleight of hand, the coin purse Steve had offered was off the table and hidden somewhere on Bucky's person.  "When you can no longer abide the mystery, come and find me.  I will show you."

"My marque?"

"Everything."

And then he was gone.


	2. Poor Disguises

How Sharon knew what she knew, Steve didn't know.  

But she knew he had gone to see the Tsingano.   

"You don't look well-rested, brother."  The teasing smirk hovering on her lips belied the calculating concern in her eyes.

Blood ties or no, Sharon was as a sister to him and he was grateful for the bond.  She had been away the night before, an assignation and a private chamber reserved elsewhere in Dahlia House for those patrons who had the purse for it.

"Merely a long night, lost in thought."

"About whom, I wonder."

She did not wonder. Steve glared.

"Are you wearing your dress from yesterday eve, sister?"  

"The scandal of such a thing! I would never." 

Steve's laughter carried him into their bathing room where he ran her a hot bath, returning in time to see her place her new coin beside her bed.

"Enough for another visit to the marquist, it looks like." 

"Mmm.  And some left over for an offering at the temple, on the way there."

"You haven't visited since—"

"—Someone has to pray for your soul."  She gave him a wry smile.  

He didn't think she was joking, entirely.  

***** 

Steve’s conversation with the Tsingano—with Bucky—haunted him for days.

“I think Nicholas is growing suspicious of you, brother.” Sharon seated herself carefully, hands working to untangle the mess of her hair that, once swept up into a delicate coif, was now sex-mussed and half undone.

“An upset stomach is routine enough.” He needed time to clear his mind; Bucky had driven him to distraction. It was not something he could tell the Dowayne and Steve was unwilling to see a patron until he had shaken the shadow of Bucky’s prophecy.

“He will send his second here with a tincture to help you heal, if you aren’t well on your own soon. It’s poor form, for a House favorite to be inaccessible.”

Steve huffed. “Then I will need a reason to keep Maria from seeking me out.”

Sharon hummed. “I wonder what it is that set you so ill.” She leveled a look at him that sent realization down Steve’s spine like a shock. She had known he was not ill and had played along nonetheless. “And I wonder whether it’s really your stomach that suffers, or if it isn’t your thoughts that are ill at ease instead.”

“I don’t—no. It is not that.” 

“If you aren’t made available by tomorrow, Nicholas will send Maria to see to your recovery.” Sharon rose, passed a hand carefully through Steve’s hair. “Elua knows I cannot make you do something you don’t wish to, but for your own sake heed my advice: don’t visit the Tsingano again.”

Steve swallowed, nodded, and leaned his head further into Sharon’s hand. “You’re right.” 

She indulged him, stroking his hair for several minutes before sighing. “I must bathe; I reek of noblewoman.”

“Mm.” Steve sighed. “And I must alert Nicholas to my returned health.”

Tilting Steve’s chin gently to meet his eyes, Sharon smiled. “Dahlia House does not deserve you, lionheart.”

*****

It was less than half a day later before Steve found himself called upon by a patron. When Steve arrived, spine straight and shoulders squared, his patron was already there.

“I had heard you were ill. I’m glad to see you’re returned to service so quickly.” She was seated in one of the plush chairs that adorned the room, set apart from the vast bed. A nest of cushions lay off to one side by the balcony. As with every assignation room, a statue of Namaah sat by the door, hands cupped for a patron to leave his or her coin.

“Thank you.”

She hummed, flicking a stray, dark strand from her face. “No, thank you. I understand I am your first assignation since you returned to your health.”

It was not insincere, necessarily, but it left Steve off-kilter. It lacked the warmth and reverence he’d heard in Bucky’s tone. Lacked the response from his own body: blood rushing in his ears and heart hammering. It was hollow and Steve swallowed hard to regain his focus. Some patrons understood better than others. It had never felt so empty before. 

“It was not a serious—“ he cleared his throat; he could not clear his head. “Yes. Thank you.” 

She hummed, and waited. Steve shook himself, and approached her. _Upright and unbending_ , the house motto, was not a challenge; she was not one who understood.

It didn’t matter. The ache in Steve’s stomach was not because his patron didn’t understand. She was well-pleased, in the end, and while she dozed, sated and limp, Steve used the pitcher and basin for the ablutions he usually never felt the need for until returning to his chambers.

***** 

It was a week before Nicholas called upon Steve to attend a selection. Steve acquiesced without hesitation; he had taken the time to put Bucky out of his mind entirely. 

At least, he thought he had, until he laid eyes upon the patron who had arrived to choose between Steve and a handful of others, hand-picked by Nicholas to the patron’s specifications.

The patron was tall and lithe, dark hair and glinting eyes a lighter blue than Bucky’s. His hair was kept shorter than Bucky’s, and his jaw was not quite as strong, but the man was enough to make Steve catch his breath at the resemblance.

A lesser son of the Shahrizai noblemen, Steve thought at first glance, though it was notable that one of the Shahrizai would stray from Valerian House; the family had a long-standing contract with Valerian House and the darker desires serviced there.

And Steve _prayed_ that he would be chosen.

He was not sure if it was a blessing or a curse that his prayer was answered. 

He _was_ sure that he would need to beg forgiveness from Namaah for imagining Bucky where his patron stood. It may have been worth it, given how well-pleased the man was with Steve’s ministrations, but it did not excuse the fact that only clapping his hand over his mouth stopped Steve from breathing the Tsingano’s name when he came.

Steve’s patron tipped him handsomely. Steve didn’t remember ever hearing the man’s name and so he put aside a few more coins than he originally intended for the offering he planned to make at Namaah’s Temple.

***** 

"You are leaving again."

Steve could not afford the cost of Bucky's knowledge, but he _could_  afford a pint, and he intended to sneak out after dark to Night's Doorstep to see Bucky.  Just being in his presence, Steve hoped, would sate the need to know what Bucky had seen of Steve's future.  

"For an assignation.  I'll return before dawn."

He was able to ignore the frown marring her face, but not the words that stopped him just as he reached the door.

"You must make me a promise."

Steve clenched his jaw but could not refuse her.  "Go on."

"You will be _careful_."

"Wh—I—It is an _assignation_.  I don't—" 

"—You are a terrible liar, but I will keep your secrets.  Just be _careful_.  I haven't spent my life looking after you for you to muck it all up now."

Steve laughed, and dropped a kiss on her head.  "I promise." 

*****

What had first felt like the thrill of sneaking away in the night the first time, Steve now identified as excitement to see Bucky.  The journey from Dahlia House to Night's Doorstep was not particularly long, perhaps three-quarters of an hour, if one traveled the main byways.  Traversing the darker paths, it took him nearly twice as long before he was in front of the pub, the sign arranged above _The Stars and Plow_  to resemble Ursa Major.  

Bucky was seated in the back corner, able to see the whole space while remaining somewhat shadowed.  Steve purchased two pints of their darkest ale before making his way to Bucky's table.  

Bucky's companion, a broad man with russet colored hair and mustache, did not pay Steve any mind when Steve sat himself at the table.  Last time, Steve had sat himself across from Bucky so that his back was to the rest of the room, his face hidden from the other patrons.  

Today, Steve sat himself next to Bucky and passed along the extra pint he'd ordered.  Bucky wrapped his hand around the glass carefully, as if it were some precious gift, and tilted his body just so to be leaning more towards Steve than the other man at the table. 

"I'm just sayin', I think it's risky.  I think _you_  know it, too, Bucky." 

"I agree.  I'm no more swayed than I was before despite my acquiescence."

"You're mad."

"No." Bucky's eyebrows lifted in amusement, lips curling into a smile.  "No, Timothy.  I'm favored.  I have been graced with a guest and I don't wish to make light of his visit." 

The ruddy-cheeked man —Timothy—set his gaze on Steve then.  

Steve was handsome; D’Angelines, even the poorest, were graced with beautiful features. Adepts of the Night Court perhaps the most so, and Steve was unused to being looked at and found wanting. Timothy stared at Steve silently for long enough that Steve was sure he would have been fool enough to challenge him had Bucky not dismissed the man with a firm: “You seek the value of something that cannot be calculated. Waste no more of our time.”

The look Timothy gave Bucky before he left was no more than a glance, but Steve could tell it was an entire conversation and scolding in just the tightness of Timothy’s eyes and the ever-so-slight downward tilt of his lips.

“You grace me with your presence and surprise me with a gift unearned.” Bucky flashed a quick, demure smile at Steve. “To what do I owe such kindness?”

“You have twice humored me and shared your visions with me. Have placed your trust in me with little assurance as to my merit.” Steve laid an empty hand palm-up between them. “And I have not thanked you for such kindness, such trust.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve watched Bucky stare at his hand as if he could not believe the offer. When Bucky did finally move several long moments later, he slid his fingers feather-light from Steve’s wrist, fanning his fingers out as he did until their hands laid palm-to-palm, fingertip-to-fingertip.

Steve’s hands were larger, wider but not longer; Bucky’s were thinner, covered in a patchwork of small nicks and marks and marred skin.

“For your presence alone I would have considered myself in debt to you. What is it I can tell you, to express my gratitude?” 

Steve shook his head. “Nothing. Not tonight. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious, but in your company I do not feel the itch of not-knowing in the way I thought I might.”

“Then what is it I can offer you instead?”

“I have been unable to pull my thoughts from you. Not just your visions. I would know more of you.”

The smile that unfurled across Bucky’s face was edged in hope and surprise and perhaps just a little caution. He took a long sip of the ale Steve had brought him, flicking his tongue along the rim to gather left-behind droplets, and tilted his head towards Steve’s ear, speaking in low, lilted words meant only for Steve.

He’d had a mother and a father, and three sisters. A harsh winter near on a decade ago took his father and one sister; the same winter, Steve suspected, that nearly cost him his own life back when he was still small and frail and at the mercy of the skill of Balm Houses physicians.

His mother and another sister he lost when an unsuitable suitor would not be turned away; he’d come home to find his mother with a blade in her throat and his sister missing. Where she was, he could not say and did not hope to see her again.

His mother never lived to see him speak the _dromonde_ , to reveal the future, and Bucky sounded relieved at being able to admit as much. For all that Hyacinth, the Prince of Thieves, had done so centuries past and had not been punished by fate for it but rather became the Master of the Straits, it was still ill luck for a Tsingano man to parse the future.

Bucky had been on his own for more than a decade. Where his last sister was Steve did not ask and nor did Bucky make mention. Steve could guess well enough given the fate of the others. 

He was wry and witty and self-deprecating and the more he spoke the more Steve felt drawn to him, not just to his prophecy.

Steve wasn’t sure whether that was worse, but he found himself unable to care. His thumb smoothed over the back of Bucky’s hand, and then his arm, and then his cheek, before Steve realized what he was doing.

“If I were unable to see the threads of fate weaving the future together, I would not have believed my luck at finding you.” Bucky smiled before continuing demure and quiet, gazing up at Steve through his lashes, “nor the strength of the desire in me to—“

Steve took that moment to tilt Bucky’s head up the scant distance between them and place a gentle, lingering kiss on his lips.

When Steve pulled back, Bucky’s shaky exhale was nearly too much to bear and he leaned forward again, nudged and licked into his mouth and felt Bucky melt against him ever so slightly.

“There is no deserving you, for the likes of me,” Bucky breathed into his mouth. 

Steve’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, a thrill at the words rushing through him. He gripped the nape of Bucky’s neck hard, willing him to understand the worth Steve found within Bucky that he was unable to put into words.

It was several hours later, Steve estimated, when they finally parted ways, lips swollen and bright from use and both of them looking dazed and drunk on infatuation. Their pints had gone warm and left half-finished in favor of exchanging histories and affection.

Steve slipped back into the chambers he shared with his sister unnoticed and found he could not sleep for the excitement that buzzed under his skin and the tingling, lingering taste of Bucky on his mouth.

***** 

Steve visited Bucky three more times before he was discovered. He had been careful to choose only evenings Sharon had an assignation. It apparently didn't matter. 

"The Dowayne would speak with you."  Maria, the Dowayne's second, was awaiting him in his room in the dark; by the sound of it, she was seated at Sharon's vanity.  

"Now? It's nearly dawn."

"And yet I don't seem to have disturbed your slumber." There was a tight-lipped smile Maria gave when she had caught an adept in the midst of misbehaving. Steve could hear it in her voice now. 

He sighed.  "Lead the way." 

With only the click of the door and the quiet whisper of her footsteps, Maria led him to the Dowayne. 

"I don't see you recorded for an assignation this evening. You wouldn't be taking patrons outside of Dahlia House’s purview, would you?" 

"No, Nicholas." 

Nicholas hummed. "I wonder then, what you're doing with your evenings.  Visiting a seer, perhaps? Fates and stars and a seedy tavern, I would imagine."

Steve startled. "Wh—how do you know that?" 

"It might be because you're the House’s most favored adept and I care for your safety. It might be because you're the House favorite and I have books to balance. But it's probably because I'm not the Dowayne just because I'm _old_." 

Steve lifted his chin. "What punishment will you dictate, then?"

"You will not see him again." Nicholas raised a hand to halt Steve from interjecting. "Not just because you do not yet have your freedom. But because I _do_ also care about your well being."

"And if I continue to see him?"

"I will re-home him.  There are plenty of places in this world the Tsingani feel at home."

"You can't." 

Fury leaned forward in his seat. "See him again, and I'll let you wave goodbye as he's escorted out of the city."

Steve's heart hammered in his chest. Nicholas stared at him unmoving until Steve gave a hasty, stiff bow, and retreated. 

*****

Steve had intended to be awake hours before he was called upon to attend a selection, but he hadn't fallen asleep for hours after his meeting with the Dowayne and so he awoke to a knock on his chamber door.  

"Mmphm." He blinked sleep and distress away, attempting to focus on the small, brunette before him.   

"You are being called upon; a patron requests yourself and three others." 

It was one of the chores of the children, to prepare them for Namaah's service; learning the various forms: kneeling  _abeyante,_  for example; attending at festivals and helping with chores; acting as the messengers of a House, near-silent and swift.  The girl before him would likely be inducted into Namaah's service in a handful of years; she was tall and losing the baby-roundness of her features.  

Messengers. The children.  

Steve was wide awake faster than he'd ever been, and he ushered the girl into his chambers.  

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

Steve nodded.  She would do.  "There is a message I must send with utmost discretion.  I would ask for your assistance."

She was only too willing, head bobbing as if on a string.  Garnering favor from the House favorite was the best course of action, as far as she seemed concerned.

He penned a short note — _Unwilling to compromise you.  Will come when I can_. —and folded it neatly, sealing it with goldenrod colored wax.  

"There is a man that sees the future, with eyes as blue as the water in the Straits. You will take this to him, wait for his reply, and return to me.  None must know of your task.  Understood?”

She nodded.  

Steve dropped two coins he couldn't spare into her hand.   "You will receive two more, to return with the response.  You will receive another two if you do not speak of this to anyone." 

She held out her hand and no sooner had the rolled and sealed parchment touched her palm but she was gone.

*****

Steve went to the selection as requested, and was not chosen; he wasn't sure if it was a blessing.  

He enjoyed assignations; he found pleasure and peace in them and it was not uncommon for D'Angelines to have a spouse and a consort.  Or several. 

Steve sat and waited and read the same several lines again and again before finally tossing his book to one side and taking up ink and paper instead and began to draw while he waited.  

He drew Bucky in every image; the curl of his lips mimicked in the curve of blade; eyes reflected in the tumultuous swell of the sea; his grace the swoop and turn of a sparrow in flight. 

It was after dusk when the girl returned as quietly as she'd come, parchment in hand.  She moved it out of Steve's reach when he moved to take it from her.

"The rest."  She held out her empty hand and into it, Steve placed two coins.  She frowned.  "That is not all you promised me."

"I said an extra two if you were quiet.  Only time will tell if you deserve it."  Steve reached for the parchment again and this time, she gave it.

_For me, the Long Road leads to you.  I will wait._

Steve sighed and brought his gaze back to the girl before him.  "Thank you."

Without waiting for his response, she left.

*****

It was nearly a week later when Steve was called to another selection by the same girl. 

"Will you carry another message for me?"

"No.  I have been under scrutiny this past week thanks to your request.  I have held my tongue despite the questions and I would instead have the last of the payment you promised me."

“I am sorry, I truly did not think you’d be discovered.”

She scowled.  "It is only because one of Elua's Companions smiled upon you that you are favored; such rebellion would not be tolerated from anyone else.  But Azza has chosen to manifest his pride in you."

"You make it sound like a bad thing, to be touched by one of the Companions of the son of God."

"Phedre no Delaunay was blessed with Kushiel's gift.  It may not be a bad thing, but you cannot tell me she did not have a road hard-traveled." 

"Perhaps she did.  But she also saved Terre D'Ange from a bloody coup."

The girl raised her eyebrows.  "Is that what you think you'll do?"

"No." Steve smiled.  "I think I might fall in love, and be left in peace to enjoy it." 

"You would do well to finish your marque sooner rather than later and be free to make that choice."   

How Nicholas and Maria found out all that they knew, Steve didn't know.  He sighed, and dropped two coins in her hand before following her to the main foyer for the selection.  

The patron that arrived was not D'Angeline.  The blue woad tattoos on his face marked him as Alban, though he did not possess the red hair typical of their kind.  Perhaps only half-Alban, then: he was not particularly attractive; his nose too large and his bearing off-kilter as though the result of an injury or poor breeding.  

The man stumped along the line of waiting adepts, looking each over with care, if a bit too close for comfort.  His breath was warm and woody on Steve's face and though the rest of him was marked and marred, his eyes reminded Steve of Bucky, and he ached.

He reviewed each adept before calling a small servant to his side who had remained so still and silent Steve hadn't noticed the boy's presence before that moment.  

A few moments of whispering and the boy declared, in an accent Steve could not place:  "Him." 

The boy was pointing at Steve.

*****

Steve did not wait long, in the assignation chamber; mere minutes after he'd arrived and lit several, subtly-scented candles, his patron arrived.   

His patron, who did not speak, but went instead to the washbasin and pitcher and scrubbed his face.  

As he patted his face dry, he spoke.  "Apologies."  

The voice.  Steve knew that voice.

" _Bucky?_ "

With a wide, mischievous smile, Bucky turned, paint washed from his skin, though he had yet to shed the rest of his disguise.

"I had to see you."

Steve crossed the room in a handful of steps to bring his arms around Bucky.  "I thought—"

"—I know what you thought.  But I would never have gotten in the door undisguised."

"What? But—anyone with coin enough can—" 

"—Maybe most everyone else.  But not _me_."  He did not elaborate and instead cupped Steve's face in his hands.  "Why would you send word?  It was too risky a move."

"It was not.  My messenger has been silent."

"You will be punished if discovered and I will not be the reason for it.  You must be safe."

Steve leaned in the scant space between them and kissed Bucky rather than respond. He had missed it and did not stop for a breath until he'd backed Bucky up against the edge of the bed.

"You would die for knowing me. I will risk punishment."

Bucky sighed and sat himself on the bed, tugging Steve down next to him.  "I did not come here to argue." 

Steve had nearly slotted his mouth to Bucky's again when a thought pulled him back sharply.  "You—you came _here_." 

Bucky smiled, amused.  "It would appear so."

"Bucky, that's—the _cost_. You—what about your sister? Yourself?"

The dismissive wave Bucky affected was reminiscent of sleight-of-hand.  "I have told you before your presence is enough.  When will you believe me when I say it?" 

It took Steve pulling Bucky in for a rough, steadying kiss before he could find his voice.  "When you tell me how you can do such a thing to me; affect me so."

"Your people believe that Elua is the son of God and that he and his eight Companions roamed Terre D'Ange, yes?"

"Yes."

"History has proved that, from time to time, one of these Companions—perhaps, Elua himself—graces a D'Angeline with the gifts of a particular companion.  Phedre no Delaunay was the most famous, perhaps, receiving Kushiel's gift of pleasure-and-pain.  It saved your nation.  Yes?" 

"Yes."

"Azza has chosen you.  You may not navigate the stars, but your sense of _right_  is as true-North as any compass.  And you have his pride, which is why you are the darling of your House.   _Upright and unbending:_  the only House you could possible have belonged in.  Yes?"

Steve nodded.  "But _how_  do you know?  What to say, how to say it—how it affects me?"

Bucky smiled.  "Where there is sunlight, there is no shadow and no place to hide."

Steve ran a hand through Bucky's hair, contemplating.  "I do not know when I will be able to visit again; I must plan carefully, I won't put you in the way of punishment."

"I can visit again."

"No.  You must save that for you, for your sister.  Once I have made my marque, I will be free to do as I wish."

"And how close to completion is your marque?"  Bucky's gaze turned calculating.  "Have you ever seen it?  Has anyone?"

"The marquist, and the Dowayne, and Sharon."

"Sharon?"   

"My sister.  The Dowayne orders it covered until completion.  She conceals it."

Bucky nodded.  "Sharon."

Steve furrowed his brow.  "Yes."

"I imagine she's quite beautiful, if she's your sister."

"She's—well.  Sister by bond, rather than blood."

"Mm.  And does she know when your marque will be completed?"

"Sooner than most, as the House favorite.  A handful of years."

Bucky sighed.  "We are talking entirely too much."  He leaned forward and recaptured Steve's mouth.

*****

It was not often that Steve stayed the night with a patron, but he did from time to time. He had no memory of a time when he did not have sex with a patron.  

He stayed the night with Bucky, not knowing when he would have the chance again; curled around him with Bucky's breath on his neck and the solid warmth of Bucky pressed up against him, nose at the hollow of his throat.  

They hadn't had sex.  They stayed up late into the night talking, kissing, touching, but did not have sex.   _I want you_ , Bucky had assured him.   _But I do not want to have bought the privilege.  I want to be worthy of it, in your eyes_.   

Steve lingered as long as he dared, in the morning, helping Bucky to cover his face again in the blue paint he'd had on the day before.  

By the time he'd returned to his chambers, his lips were yet again kiss-bruised and his hair further mussed.  

"Looks like you were both well-pleased, despite the rumors I heard about him."  Sharon was smiling at Steve, one foot in the washroom, one in the living quarters, where she stood idly untangling her hair and glancing at the result of her patron’s affections on her throat.

"He was..." Steve tried not to smile too wide lest she grow suspicious, "...not what I expected." 

"Perhaps you could put in a good word for me, next time." 

Steve laughed, almost too loud at the thought.  "If there's a next time, sister, you will have to fight me for the privilege."   

Sharon's fingers stilled in her hair for just a moment, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, before she reached for the tap on the bath, and then the door.  "Indeed."

 *****

It took Steve half a dozen more assignations before he had the coin to add more to his marque. 

Mostly, it was his last patron, wealthy and older and more interested in the allure of the Night Court than anything else, missing how things had been, that left him with coin enough for the marquist.  

"What is it?"  Head pillowed on his forearms, Steve kept his eyes closed.  He couldn't see the progress being inked into his skin and the humming numbness that followed the tapping of the marquist's needles left his head heavy.

The marquist hummed.  "Do you not like a thing more, for the surprise?"

Bucky’s voice, dark and lilting, came unbidden to his mind: _You do not know the image of your freedom._  

Steve forced a warm smile.  "I'll be patient, then." 

"No wonder you're the Dowayne's favorite."

Steve made a noise of agreement.  He had long since stopped protesting.  His manner was impeccable, he had been told, and between it and his beauty, it made him the most requested adept in Dahlia House. 

His debut had only been six years before, but at twenty-seven, already his marque took up half of his back. Sharon’s crawled up from the base of her spine towards her nape and would likely be finished in a mere handful of years.

There was a marque unique to each of the Thirteen Houses, which was inked into the skin of an adept’s back Dahlia House was about dignity, bestowing oneself like a King or a Queen upon a patron; a mighty gift for a deserving subject.  Thus, the marque of Dahlia House: strong, sure lines twining up the spines of adepts, culminating in a bold, bright bloom between the shoulder blades. Proud and upright and unbending.

Steve’s marque was not limned in the way others were, he knew. Steve felt the marquist choose a different spot each time. He did not remember any visits thus far that connected what had already been limned in his skin.   He was forbidden to see the progress, and it was Sharon’s duty to cover the ink such that patrons could not see. Only the marquist, the Dowayne, and Sharon knew what progress had been made, the shape it took.

When the marquist had finished, only a scant few coins remained in his purse and the sun dipped below the horizon.  

_You do not know the image of your freedom._

Pulling up the hood on his cloak, Steve turned towards Night's Doorstep.

*****

"Your purse is far lighter today, princeling."  Bucky shook the near-empty purse before tossing it on the table between them.  

"Please."

"It's been a month, nearly, since you last graced me with your presence."

Steve's mouth went dry.  Bucky had been teasing, _princeling_ , but there was something decidedly joyful in his tone, now, something grateful.  

It was true. Steve had not had the ability to sneak away to Night’s Doorstep and Bucky had not had the coin to disguise himself and spend a night in Dahlia House.  Steve had ached for the chance to return more than he was able to put into words. There was pain in Bucky’s voice, but Steve hadn’t mistaken the gratitude, the hope, that he’d heard, too.

Swallowing a few times before he found his voice, Steve heard himself say: "You mock what I am."

"I don't.  Keep what's left of your coin."  Bucky nudged the purse back towards Steve.  "I will answer your questions; the privilege of you asking them is payment enough."

Steve's breath left him in a shaky exhale.  For all his grace and training, years and years of training, Bucky left him grasping for composure.  He nodded.  

“What is it you wish of me?”

“Answers.”

“You have never bent: to illness or strife or the will of your Dowayne; you will not bend now: to your fate or your Queen. I can see a great many things, when I look at you, but I cannot tell which blow it will be that will finally make you yield. Unless you do, unless you do while there’s still _time_ , there is no escape from this fate of yours.”

Steve forced himself to open his mouth; far better to speak than to crack his teeth. “To take orders from—“

“—I do not issue decrees to you.” Bucky cupped Steve’s hand in both of his own. “I offer to you without embellishment or deceit, the very heart of the vision I saw, in return for the honor of being the one whose counsel you seek.”

It was not something he made mention of, but when Steve’s patrons knew, truly  _understood_  what it was to be of Dahlia House, his vision swam and his breath was stolen from him.   He could _feel_ Azza there, sometimes. He wondered if the Dowayne knew, if that’s why he had been allowed to serve as one of Dahlia House’s adepts, and not simply because he had been persistent.  

From time to time, it was said, a true scion of one of the Thirteen Houses, of one of Elua’s Companions was born.

“Bucky, please. Show me.”

*****

The space was ramshackle but tidy.  Sparsely decorated but lived in: a table and several chairs, books with broken spines and a bed, rumpled and hastily made.

Bucky went about making tea in silence, gesturing to the table as he did.  

Steve was grateful for the quiet, head still humming even now that they'd walked several blocks from the tavern.  Bucky would ask for Steve’s favor, and light-headed, Steve would answer, voice hoarse but still infused with something that made Bucky’s eyes go dark and wide at the order. Steve traced the wood with his eyes: the whorls and knots and nicks in a feeble attempt to right himself. 

And didn't realize that Bucky had spoken until he'd crouched in front of Steve, hands cupped around a mug wafting the scent of fruit and subtle, secret spice.  

"For you." 

Again a haze rose in his mind and he blinked hard to clear it, accepting the cup blindly. 

Fresh and summer-melon sweet, with the barest notion of spice nipping at the edges.  

"How did you come by white tea?" His hand rested against Bucky’s cheek unbidden and he pulled away as quickly as he could make himself.

It was rare, trade with Ch'in uncommon and only the most costly of tea houses had it on offer, for a price only the richest could afford.  

Bucky shrugged, trying in vain to hide how he leaned after Steve’s hand and remained crouched below Steve's height sat at the table.  "I won it.  The Tsingani are excellent gamblers.  It is only a small amount."

"And you—"

"—Were saving it for a special occasion."

Steve tried to form the words twice, before they made it past his lips.  "How do you know?"

Bucky smiled, patient and calm.  "I can see it; there are no shadows to hide the likes of you."

Steve said a prayer to Namaah, to Azza, to Elua, and spoke: "Show me."

***** 

"May I?"  Bucky stood before him, fingers itching to unclasp the ties on Steve's shirt.  

Bucky was nearly of the same height, and somehow Steve felt far taller.  Steve nodded, unable to speak from his nerves.  From how Bucky fanned that thing inside of Steve that he'd lit upon their first meeting and left burning.  

The goose bumps that rose on his skin as Steve slid his shirt from his shoulders had nothing to do with the chill in the room.  

A quiet gasp caught in Bucky's throat somewhere behind Steve.

"Tell me." 

Bucky was silent for several minutes.

"House Courcel." It was a whisper but Steve could have sworn it punched a hole through his middle.

This was a mistake. He should not have come. He surged forward, hastily retying the tunic he had only just discarded. Sharon’s tales had been one thing. But this—this—

Bucky was speaking but Steve couldn't make out the words over the noise in his head.

"Stop!" Steve whirled on the Tsingano and found he'd brought them nearly nose-to-nose. 

Bucky stared, silent. Eyes wide and blue, some deep knowledge moving in them.  He had never seen the like. 

Quieter, this time, Steve tried again. "Stop. I should not have asked. I should not have come here."

He was loath to leave. It was not the mystery and adventure the Tsingano provided that made him want to linger. It was not that Sharon had told him not to.  It was that Bucky was more beautiful than most of the adepts he knew, that Bucky had woken something deep within him, something that Azza himself, one of Elua’s Companions, had set within him and that none had made sing in quite the same way.

 _Love as thou wilt_ ; the mantra of the Night Court, the decree of Elua by which every D'Angeline lived.  Steve did not think it would be tolerated in practice by his Dowayne, in this instance.

Steve _wanted_ , and he could not have, should not have tempted himself so much. 

"Bucky, please. Stop."

Something came over Bucky, then. He must have read something in Steve’s expression that didn’t sit well with him, for Bucky promptly dropped his gaze and then lowered himself to his knees.

"What would you ask of me, to guarantee your return?"

 _Very little_ , Steve knew was the answer on the tip of his tongue.

Instead he heard himself say: "There is no reparation for the cost of my regret."

Feet heavy and mind swimming, Steve didn't find his way back to his chambers until the sun was peeking over the horizon.


	3. The Weight of Guilt

A month had passed since he had last seen Bucky, and it ached no less than it had the first day after he’d left Bucky pleading on his knees in his tenement in Night’s Doorstep.  Steve had taken a dozen more assignations.

The first evening he had coin enough, Steve made ready to leave the House grounds. Sharon stopped him before he could leave their chambers.

“I worry for you; you have not spoken to me about what troubles you and I fear what harm you will bring upon yourself.” 

Steve did not have the energy for the conversation, though he knew Sharon was trying to help him. “Sharon—“

She pressed a House Token into his hand. “Go to Balm House, and ask for Sam. He will help you. He’ll listen to those things you will not tell me.”

Eyes pricking at the corners, Steve pulled her into an embrace. “Do you ever tire of having a mule for a brother?” 

She laughed, quiet and warm and Steve felt more settled for the sound. “Only when you forget your heart is too big for your body, even now.” Sharon gave him a last gentle squeeze before holding him at arms length. “Ask for Sam.”

Sam had kind brown eyes and a warm smile that set Steve at ease, and that he recognized immediately. He was the man from the Masque with whom Sharon had disappeared.

Sam was as gifted a listener as he was a masseuse, and he massaged the tension out of Steve's back as he listened to Steve's plight.  He had agreed to forego any oils typical of his trade; the oils would have rubbed off the make-up Sharon applied for him before each assignation. Until his marque was finished, none but those necessary were allowed to see it.   

"I should not have done it, truly, but the temptation was too great.  I regret it now.  I should never have asked.  Should never have even greeted him in the first place." 

"I don't get the impression you're losing sleep because of regret." Sam had spoken only sparingly, voice low and even and calming.

Steve gave a bitter laugh that tapered off into a groan as Sam found a particularly stubborn knot in his shoulder and pressed.  "It would never be allowed, I should never have tempted myself." 

" _Love as thou wilt._ Is that not the D'Angeline way? Is that not the life and breath of the Night Court?"

"I would be cast out.  The Dowayne would never allow it."

"It is not his to dictate.  If Elua has bid it, then—"

"It is his choice, Sam.  He would cast me out and what then?" Steve hadn’t meant to move, but he found he was perched on his elbows, breath coming lighter with every inhale.

Sam held forth a small tincture.  "One drop under your tongue.  You must relax."

Steve did as he was bid and felt his brain begin to slow and his muscles to loosen further.

"It is not me I worry for."  The words felt slow and slurred, pulled from him unbidden. 

"You must look after yourself as you would another."

"He said he saw his death in me."

Sam pressed harder, silent for several minutes as the room seemed to grow darker.  "Rest."

It was the last thing Steve remembered until sunlight peeked through the curtains the next morning.

Steve didn't remember the last time he felt so well rested and _lighter_.  He left more than he could truly afford for Sam, unable to otherwise express his gratitude.

***** 

He was taking breakfast with Sharon when it happened.  They had stopped at a small café after an excursion to a jewelers at the Dowayne’s behest.

A note fluttered out from between the folds of his napkin as he went to lay it in his lap.  

_I beg of you, an audience.  Please._

All of the time Sam had spent be damned; Steve's head snapped up so quickly he felt a twinge of pain in his neck.  

And nowhere.  Bucky was _nowhere_.  He could not have known where Steve would be.  And yet.

"Steve?"  Sharon's face was pinched in concern, eyes darting trying to catch his own.

"Nothing. It's nothing.  I just—" 

She plucked the note from his hand.

"Oh, Steve."

He snatched it back, tucking the note into his boot for safekeeping, and schooled his features. 

"I will refuse, obviously."

Sharon was silent longer than made Steve comfortable, her face, for once, unreadable.  "It may be too late for that."

"I told him I never wanted to see him again."  

"I wonder if he believed you."

"Sharon—" 

"Tread carefully, brother."

***** 

Steve did not respond to Bucky's plea.  He kept the note and hid it under the false bottom to the drawer in his bedside table.  He did not stop thinking about Bucky, or what he'd said.

Two weeks after the note, Steve returned from an assignation to find a small sachet on his pillow. The sachet was the same blue the color of his eyes.  And inside, a fresh, summer-melon sweet scent, with the barest notion of spice.

White tea.

Steve hid it in his nightstand as well, and sat himself by the window in his chambers to await Sharon's return.   

The marque he could not see, that was not being limned in the same style as the other adepts.  The chambers he shared with his sister, a luxury not afforded to other adepts, even those that were siblings.  Bucky's visions.  It was too much.  It could not be true, but yet—would the Dowayne lie to him? And for so long?  

And to what point and purpose?  No.  It did not make sense.  It must not be so.  He was favored, no more.

He startled when Sharon sat down beside him.  "The Skaldi could take over the city this very moment and you would not notice."

"Do you think it strange, that we have quarters of our own?"

"You are favored by Nicholas.  His Second also has chambers of her own, does she not?" 

"I am not Maria."

"What is it you want to hear me say?"

"Do you think he's right?"  It was past Steve's lips before he realized what he'd said.  

He could not face her, and nor would Steve name the man in question, as he waited for her answer and instead fixed his gaze on the horizon watching the sun sink, jaw aching as he clenched it.

"It matters only what you believe." She set a coin purse on his knee.  "Go back to Balm House."

He kissed her cheek, and went. It was not until he was halfway there that he realized he had not asked her to hide his uncompleted marque, and she, ever fastidious, had not offered.

***** 

"You requested me especially."  Sam smiled warm and wide.  "It's good to see you again."

"You kept your peace once, I would ask that you do so again.  Please."  Steve was tugging his shirt from his shoulders already, pretense be damned. 

"Of course, I—what is that?" Sam’s voice, which had only ever had only exuded calm and peace in their short acquaintance, was tinged with uncertainty now.

Steve stopped, his shirt hanging from one hand.  "What?"

"Your—is that your _marque_?"

Steve hadn't had Sharon cover his marque and he hadn’t turned home to do so when he remembered his mistake partway to Balm House. He had wanted someone else to see and whether he should have or not, he trusted Sam; Sam hadn't told anyone of what Steve had said on his last visit weeks ago and it was enough that Steve trusted him, in his desperation.

"What do you see?" 

"Nonsense."

Steve's brow furrowed.  There was no awe or hush in Sam's voice as there had been in Bucky’s.  "What?"

"It's—it's _lines_.  None of them—come." Sam led him to a full-length mirror with three sides.

He was right.  Lines and curves and nothing connecting.  Shading, some outlining, but no definite shape, merely an abstract _something_.  Nothing made sense.  Bucky had lied.  

Bucky had lied and Steve was _furious_.  

*****

He left Sam the coin purse Sharon had given him, regardless of the fact that he'd only just arrived, and made for Night's Doorstep.  

Bucky was in the same tavern Steve had found him in before.  The wide, bright smile vanished when he saw Steve's figure, hooded and cloaked, step into the tavern; it appeared that Bucky knew it was him despite being unable to see his face.  

By the time he reached the table, the man Bucky had been laughing with was gone.  

"I did not truly think that you would co—" 

"You will not speak," Steve watched the weight of his words hit Bucky,  "save what you must to explain your lies."

Bucky's expression shifted again; from awe to confusion to rage.

"If it so pleases my grace, you will follow me.  What I must make even plainer I cannot do here."

Steve growled out a frustrated curse, but followed; back to the derelict collection of rooms on the second floor of a tenement in Night's Doorstep.  

"Who did you show?" Bucky had barely let the door shut behind them.

"It's not business of yours."

" _Who did you show?_ "  No, not rage.  Steve had read it wrong.  Desperation, and fear. 

"Another adept."

"And?" 

"He couldn't make sense of it.  Said it was—"

Bucky pushed past him, rummaging in a darkened corner before producing two small mirrors and a stick of kohl.  

"I will show you what you would not stay to see upon your last visit."

Sharon had always groused that Steve was too trusting.  Too willing to believe in the altruism of others.  That it would be misplaced, someday.

He ignored the voice in his head that sounded like her and removed his shirt for Bucky. 

It took several minutes during which Steve concentrated on anything but Bucky's hand on his skin, the anger that was slowly seeping away.  When he was finished, Bucky lent Steve one of the mirrors and stepped away, holding the other, slightly larger mirror in one hand.

What had been a smattering of complicated but meaningless lines and shapes and runes had been connected and to Steve’s horror and wonder, expressed the symbol of a swan, long neck arched and resting in the middle of the dahlia of Dahlia House's marque.  At the base, a crown, delicate fleurs-de-lis rising into the vines twining towards the top of Steve's spine.  

It was beautiful and all together too obvious.

"How could you have known?"

"I have answered you before.  I wonder now what they will do, when you complete your marque."

Steve felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  "What?"

"Once complete, there will be no hiding the meaning." 

"It doesn't matt—"

"It does.  House Courcel may have given you up as a babe, but they have since found a use for you.  I fear what it may be."

House Courcel.  Sharon had been right, to trust her memories.  A humorless laugh escaped Steve and he sat himself heavily at the beaten table.  

"And why would you care—" A clattering behind him stopped Steve short.

"Bucky?"  

A girl, slender with wide, clear blue eyes and tousled brown ringlets stood in the doorway.

"Rebecca."  Bucky fished in his pockets, finally producing half a dozen coins.  "Fetch yourself a meal at the inn."

The girl's eyes were huge as she stared at the coins in her hand. Her awe only lasted a handful of moments before she set her jaw, glaring up at Bucky.  "And what will _you_  eat?"

"Never mind.  Go, and don't speak to anyone of what you've seen here.  I will collect you when I'm finished."

The girl glared at Steve, his presence an affront, and left with her head high.  Bucky sat himself opposite Steve with a sigh. 

The silence stretched, and Steve held his tongue as long as he could before he felt he would burst. "Your daughter?"

"Sister."

Sister. His only family left. Steve felt his color draining, horrified that he had been so thoughtless; Bucky had told him of his family, and Steve had forgotten it entirely.

Bucky stopped him before Steve could stumble through an apology. "You should worry about your own fate, prince."

Just as Bucky's pleas had sat in Steve's gut hot and vertiginous, his tone now felt like a slap across the face.  

Indignation and pride colored Steve's cheeks.  " _You_  cannot—"

Bucky was nose-to-nose with him in a heartbeat.  Steve didn't recall standing, but he had. He did not recall ever thinking the wild glint in Bucky to be dangerous before this moment. "I cannot _what_?  You have asked everything you wanted and given me _nothing_  in return.  A prince understands the necessity of give and take when negotiating.  You have a long way to go in this and I will not—"

Steve silenced him with a kiss, hot and open and hungry.  Until he felt Bucky sigh the last of his breath into Steve's mouth, he did not pull back.  

"Forgive me.” Steve all but breathed it into Bucky’s mouth.  “Please, I—"

"Azza is close to you, I know.  I will tell you what you want to know of me.  I ask only that you find me worthy enough to share in kind."

Mouth dry and pulse humming, Steve spoke.  

His history, as Sharon had told it to him: his arrival at Dahlia House and subsequent raising as her brother.  Discovering they were not actually siblings.  The fissures in explanations that he began to see shortly thereafter.  The excuses from the Dowayne that never sat quite right with him, never quite made sense.  His marque and the secrecy shrouding it.   

"You never thought it was a lie?"

Steve shrugged.  "I didn't have the heart to think that way.  At least, not when I was young."

"You cannot let them know you know."

"Nicholas would—" 

"Do _not_  tell your Dowayne you know.  Don't tell anyone."

Steve set his jaw.  "You don't know him.  He wouldn't—"

"I have seen how the Court handles dissension.  You would not be safe.  We must discover what they intend for your future in secret."

"We?" 

Bucky blushed and hurried to save face.  "I am the only other one who knows, truly.  You can't—it's not safe, for others to know.  But you can't do this alone."

“Sharon—“

“Your sister would be in too much danger. She cannot be brought further into this.” Bucky was gazing at the door Rebecca had retreated through, and Steve felt a tremor run through him.

Bucky was right. Sharon could know no more.

*****

Steve did not leave for several hours; Bucky was unwilling to let him go until he was reasonably sure Steve would not act rashly. Bucky used all of his considerable talents to ensure Steve had calmed.

It worked, and as Steve made his way back to Mont Nuit he couldn't help but let his mind wander in the afterglow.

It was different with Bucky, and not just because there was no exchange of coin. He was not the first Steve had ever chosen for himself, given the Midwinter Masque and the number of years Steve had attended as a practicing adept, but there was always a certain thrill in choosing that was absent in assignations.

Bucky was different from any he had chosen; formally untrained in Namaah's arts. Still there was a passion and fervor and earnestness that Steve had not had before. And Bucky knew what it meant to Steve, the motto of Dahlia House that felt etched in his bones.

It was something he had never experienced in quite the same way before and while some of his patrons understood, Bucky seemed reach through Steve with the knowledge and leave a wildfire in its wake.

And it would be years before he would get the chance to have Bucky for himself in earnest without having to dissemble.

 _If_ he got the chance, provided his true heritage didn't come to wreak havoc on the life he wanted for himself.

Which was the only option, Steve realized, given the marque being limned in his skin. If his marque unmistakably referenced House Courcel, then they would use him for some purpose when they were ready, whether Steve willed it or not.

Nicholas. The Dowayne. He would help. Bucky was wrong. Nicholas had always looked after his adepts, Steve especially.  He would not abandon or betray Steve when Steve needed him most.

Setting his features into a guise of grim determination, Steve picked up his pace.  He would speak with Nicholas—it would not be too late when Steve arrived, Nicholas would still be in his study—and Nicholas would help him.

By the time he reached the gates of Dahlia House, the relaxation Bucky had provided had bled from Steve's bones and he felt only righteous anger boiling under his skin.

*****

Bucky’s voice rang urgent and insistent in his head and still it did not stop Steve’s feet from carrying him to the Dowayne’s chambers. He swept in without knocking.

"How long did you think you would fool me?  For what price?"

Nicholas did not glance up from his tabulations.  

"Nicholas."  

"She will not be happy about this."  Nicholas motioned for Steve to take the empty seat before him.  

Steve stood firm.  "Who?"

"Your mother."  Nicholas gave a small, wry smile and watched Steve pour himself into the offered seat after all.

"So it's true."

"I told her you would come by this knowledge."  There was something calculating in the Dowayne's face, then. "But I wonder _how_  you came by it."

"It matters not."  

"It is a matter of great import, in fact.  Treasonous, even, for any to speak of it before it's time."

Steve felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  "That's not true."

"I assure you, Victoria de la Courcel took great pains to ensure your secrecy until such time as she orders your reveal."

"And when will that be?"

Nicholas heaved a sigh, finally shifting his finances to one side and taking up a journal written in his Second's precise, small lettering.  "When it was going to be is of no consequence, now.  She must be alerted and she will likely take a meeting with me—with _us_ —within the week."

"And then?" 

"And then we do as Her Majesty bids."

“Sharon had no part in this.” The words tumbled from Steve as quickly as he could think them.

Nicholas observed him without thinking for several long moments before failing to reassure Steve. “You may go.”

Steve felt himself nod, and found his way from the Dowayne's chamber in a fog. 

He should have returned to his chambers as Nicholas had bid him. He should have seen Sharon first.  Or perhaps Sam, to calm himself and talk through the dense thicket in his mind and ensure he did not act rashly again.  

He sought out Bucky instead, who shooed Rebecca out the door of their tenement the moment he saw Steve in his doorway.  

***** 

"That's all you know?" Bucky was focused on his hands as he asked, taking in everything Steve had recounted.  

"For now."  Steve felt lightheaded, as though something terrible was coming for him even though he did not know what.  

Treason.  They could—they _would_ —put Bucky to death, if they knew it was from him that Steve learned of his past.  He was unwilling to see such a thing happen.

"That you sought my counsel first is a great gift."  From the moment they met, Bucky had known what to say in a way no one else Steve had met had.   _Azza_   _is close to you_ , he had said once.   _Dahlia House has never thrown more true_ , he had said.  

 "Bucky—" Even as he leaned towards Bucky, Steve tried to stop himself.  "Treason, the Dowayne said."

"I told you when we first met that you would be the death of me.  I intend to deserve it."  

Steve felt the words Bucky spoke more than heard them, brushed against his lips before he felt the warmth and velvet-smooth skin of Bucky's mouth.  

Wholly unable to stop himself, Steve surged forward.  

*****

"What do I do?"  It had been near to a quarter of an hour since they had lain together before Steve asked, whisper shattering the silence.

"You must play along.  Until you know what it is they plan for you, you must dissemble."  Bucky gave him a thin smile, watching his hand trace patterns along Steve’s chest.  "It may well be a fate you find yourself happy in."

"I do not want it."

"You do not even know what it is she wishes of you."

"I don't want it." Steve could feel frustration bubbling under his skin.   

"How do you know?"

"Leave it, Bucky."

"Until you know what she plans for you, you must—"

"I would never see you again!"

There.  Bucky had pushed—not even particularly hard—and Steve had let loose the thing he most wanted to keep to himself.  He was greedy and demanding and undeserving of Bucky: his patience, his gift foresight, his smile.  And now that Bucky knew, even though it would be his death, he would see Steve safe.  

Cupping Steve's jaw, Bucky gave him a soft, lazy smile, already leaning again to capture Steve’s lips.  "Then we will find a way out."

Steve, eyes closed and utterly underserving, nodded.

*****

Steve slipped back into his quarters just before dawn, picking his way carefully through the dark so as not to wake Sharon.

"You're trying to spare me, keeping things from me."

Steve startled at Sharon's voice and nearly fell into his wardrobe.  "You're awake."

"I've been awake."  Grim amusement colored her tone.  "And I will not ask where you've been, pretending that perhaps you'll tell me." 

"You cannot know."

"Is it very heavy?"

Steve furrowed his brow, though they could not see one another in the darkness.  "What?"

"This weight you bear.  I would help you, if you would let me."

He sat himself carefully on the end of her bed.  "I will not risk the only family I have."  

"That's not entirely true."

He huffed.  "The only family that _matters_ , then."

Her forehead against his shoulder was his only response and he woke hours later to the sun streaming in through the windows, his back to the wall and Sharon still asleep against his shoulder, one hand loose around his wrist as if to keep him anchored in place.  


	4. Departures

Nicholas was right.  Victoria de la Courcel met them half a week later.  

Nicholas' Second, Maria, was waiting to show Steve in.  He could have sworn he saw something remorseful in her gaze, as she moved to open the doors to the chamber in which the Queen and Nicholas were waiting.

Her hand on his arm stopped him.  "Do not forget you have allies."  It was quiet, scarce above a whisper, but the steel in her words had him nodding.  He had only passing acquaintance with her, for all that he was favored by the Dowayne and he found it hard to imagine she would aid him.  

She followed him in, standing beside and behind Nicholas to record the proceedings.  

Victoria de le Courcel, for her part, was warm smiles and soft apologies and explanations.  

She had been young and untested and unwed, if betrothed.  She had not been able to keep him and so left him with those who she most trusted to be discreet.  She had watched him grow from afar and it had pained her but she was proud of who he had become.   

"...And now, I finally have the opportunity to welcome you home." 

Steve had tuned out, at some point, feeling strange and outside of his body and desperate to be elsewhere, anywhere.  

In a tenement in Night's Doorstep. 

"I am home." 

The Queen frowned at that, little lines forming between her eyebrows, the same lines Sharon would smooth away with a finger from between Steve's eyes, chiding _you make even worry look beautiful, brother_.

"This has been your temporary home, certainly.  You belong with your family."  Her tone suggested Steve was simple and small and foolish for mistaking Dahlia House for his home, his family.   

"I have no desire to return to the palace with you."  There was a gnawing in his stomach that grew more insistent.  Bucky had told him to be circumspect, to dissemble until he knew what was being asked of him.  But Steve had goosebumps up and down his arms and he was _never_  cold and… 

Steve noted, out of the corner of his eye, that Maria studiously did _not_  record his response.  

"It is not for you to decide.  There is a service which needs completing and you are the only one who can take on this task."

"Have I not already done so?"  His voice was steady, but a hair higher than he wanted.  He could not panic.  He needed to keep his head.  If he was not in control now, he would likely never have control over himself again.  "You wished for me to be raised here, orphaned, and learn the arts of Namaah.  I have done so."  He motioned towards Dowayne Fury.  "If you have been watching me, as you claim, you know I have conducted myself in a way of which you could not be more proud."

A serene smile, and a nod.  "Yes.  You have completed the first part of your task better than I could have hoped and for it I'm grateful and endlessly proud." 

"Then—"

"Return home with me.  Once you are settled and have heard what it is I am asking of you, you will not think it so great a burden.  You hesitate now because it is unknown, but you have thrived in the unknown, my dear."   

Steve was silent, unsure of what else to say—too much, there was too much and all of it locked behind his teeth.  Nicholas nodded solemnly and motioned to Maria.  

"Have his belongings prepared and a fair copy of the record of this exchange delivered to the palace ahead of the Queen."

With little more than a twitch of motion to indicate she had heard him, Maria slid from her seat and led Steve back to his chambers, not acknowledging Steve until his chamber doors had shut firm behind them.  

"There is little more I can do, save to remind you of what I have already said.  Nicholas sees more of the pieces in play than you or I and so his hands are tied in a way mine are not."  She gave a wry smile, then.  "Something that he will put to use, when warranted."

Without waiting for a response from Steve, she slid from the room, only the quiet click of the door to announce her departure.  Steve did not understand and felt each moment more off-balance and unmoored.

He thought of Bucky’s counsel, of Sharon’s ever-present care and concern for him, and ignored his better judgment, stepping back out into the hallway.

He did not wait long, only long enough to know Maria had returned to the meeting between Nicholas and Victoria de la Courcel.  

"I will not go without knowing what it is I go to."  As far as entrances went, it was not particularly graceful, nor decorous.  

Victoria de la Courcel glanced up from her parchment, Steve's contract he assumed, and smiled.  Nicholas put his head in his hands.  Maria lowered her hand to her lap in such a way that seemed less about changing position and more a warning to Steve.   

"Steven—"  Nicholas' voice was weary, and cautious.

"I deserve to know what fate I go to. Please."

Victoria de la Courcel hummed, considering.  Then, finally:  "He has a point.  Very well.  I will tell you."  Something wide and wonderful came over her face, lighting up the eyes he had inherited.  "You are betrothed to Thor Odinson, of Skaldia."

Steve felt as though the room had started to spin.  

The word stuck in the back of Steve's throat.  He was expected to respond: delight, gratitude, grace.  What he spit out instead sounded only hollow and sick and far away.  

"Married?"

"Betrothed. " Victoria de la Courcel—his mother, Steve reminded himself—smiled serenely.  "Relations with Skaldia continue to improve.  A marriage would further solidify the good faith efforts on both sides. You are perfect for this honor. " 

Skaldia.

Bucky.

_No._

"Because I would warm his bed well enough to keep him complacent?"

Her features clouded over, then. "The Skaldi have accepted.  This marriage will come to pass whether you will it or no."

"I will refuse.”

"It matters not." Victoria de la Courcel gave a nod to her waiting guards.

Steve struggled, but to no avail and found himself forcibly removed, Nicholas' stern expression never shifting.  

He glimpsed gold in the shadows before he was removed from the room and sent stumbling towards the Queen's waiting coach.  Sharon.  She was crying, eyes desperate but body stock-still for fear of being discovered. 

He was silent on the journey to the palace. He had been abandoned as a babe and would not rejoice at having a family now that they found him useful.  At being a pawn in the place of a more valuable child.

*****

The Houses of Mont Nuit were lavish, to be sure, but the palace was opulence the likes of which Steve had never seen. The palace was only a quarter of an hour from the gates of Mont Nuit by carriage through the bustle of the city center towards the homes of the truly wealthy and the palace. It had only taken Steve a fraction of that time to resolve himself to refuse any sustenance and keep silent.

The heavy, carved, wooden doors swung in and Steve was faced with an entryway with arching pillars and mosaics of great deeds of the past. Just beyond, was a truly cavernous space that he assumed was a throne room or perhaps a banquet hall. 

He was led down a hallway to the left of the entrance and then on a route so winding, he had difficulty remembering which way the entrance was and wondering just how much bigger the palace was than it looked. His guards kept a swift pace and did not speak, only pausing to unlock a door, which they showed him through.

As soon as he was inside the room, the guards pulled shut the door and locked it.

Steve let out a huff of breath that was closer to a sob than anything else. He sat himself heavily on the edge of the bed—huge, larger than any he had seen—and put his head in his hands. He was useless if he allowed himself to crumple; he clutched at his hair hard until his eyes no longer stung and his throat felt a little less raw. 

He needed to find a way out. He could escape. Steve had spent enough time sneaking in and out of Dahlia House to be able to accomplish this.   He and Sharon had shared quarters in Dahlia House: a somewhat spacious room with beds and furniture, a window and balcony, and an adjoining washroom. Because he was House Favorite, and they were siblings, he’d thought. He let out a soft, bitter laugh at the idea. Because he had been the Queen’s not-so-abandoned son, more like.

This room was larger: the large bed against one wall, with a desk facing a window that looked out onto a small courtyard. There was a couch as well, and an armoire more sizable than anything Steve could ever need. A door off to the right of his bed led to a washroom with a tub large enough for three, and a large vanity.

It was beautiful, and he loathed it.

***** 

It was an hour before he had a visitor. The Queen herself arrived, and she arrived alone. 

“These are your quarters, while you are in residence. Most of the year, you will be with your husband in Skaldia, but there will be events which will require your presence and you—and he—will stay here.” 

Steve didn’t bother looking up from his hands. 

“You understand the importance of your task, do you not? For centuries relations with Skaldia have been tense at best, and at worst have resulted in open warfare. Odinson is reasonable, as is his son, and I will not squander this opportunity to further solidify good relations. Enough D’Angeline blood has been spilt in the name of a useless cause.”

Steve stared at her, but did not speak.

“You are best equipped for this task. Not only are you skilled in the art of lovemaking, you know little of the court; should their purpose be more nefarious than we anticipated, you will not be able to put D’Angeline lives at risk because you will not know the information they seek.”

He could not help himself: “And I am not your husband’s son, so my worth is far less than that of your other children.”

The gaze Victoria de la Courcel pinned him with was nothing short of withering. It was that moment which made Steve thankful for all of Nicholas’ stern expressions.

“We are hoping you will see reason. You will join us for the evening meal. Tomorrow, you will meet with a tutor to learn all you must about your betrothed.” 

Without waiting for a response, she left him alone again.

***** 

When the dinner hour arrived, he did not join them, and so a nameless guard brought a meal to him. Steve did not eat.

He spent much of the night seeking a way to escape. There was a guard on rotation every fifteen minutes by the sound of the footfall passing his chamber door. Leaving all candles unlit, he searched his chambers for a way into the courtyard. There was none. The window did not open wide enough for him to squeeze through and even if he could, there was nowhere for him to land, no outcropping of stone to use as hand and footholds. His sheets would not be long enough and he doubted their ability to hold his weight.

If he wanted to escape, he would need to find a way through a palace that was more of a maze to him than anything else. And past the guards that were likely posted throughout the palace.

By morning, his stomach was growling and he was parched. He drank water and again refused the meal brought to him when he did not join the Queen and her family for the morning meal.

*****

Steve attempted to leave his quarters during the daylight hours first, it would be more likely seen as exploration of his temporary home than an attempt to escape.

A pair of guards followed ten paces behind his every step. He found a library, a hall of portraits, several rooms that looked as though they were for more private, important meetings, and a number of empty, generic bedchambers.

He only got lost twice on his way back to his chambers.

That evening, two hours after dusk, Steve crept from his room between the guards’ rotations. He was alone until the end of the hallway, when he realized he had a guard silently trailing him at fifteen paces. Steve led the man to the library and selected a text without glancing at the spine, and returned to his chambers. 

Even without the rotating guard, someone was always watching his chambers. If there was a way out, it would have to be while the convoy was on the way to Skaldia. 

He placed another untouched dinner outside his door when he returned.

***** 

After nearly a week, Steve was near delirious and no less obstinate; he had continued to refuse food and conversation. Victoria de la Courcel had decided to show him from where his stubborn streak came and played along, allowing him to remain in the chambers he had been locked in until Steve found it within himself to be fit company.

He dreamt that night that Bucky had come for him.  

“Would that you were really here.”

“I am.” A hand roughly tugging his hair to lift his head made him smile.  He was not hallucinating.  Bucky had come for him. 

"How did you—"

"Sharon. Quickly, we must hurry.  There's a coach waiting in Night's Doorstep for us."

"Where are we going?" Steve felt light and dreamy and weak.  

"Away.  Out of Terre D'Ange. It's not safe for you here."

"What about Rebecca?"

"She's coming too.  The Long Road is as much home to the Tsingani as anyplace.  She'll be fine.” Bucky glanced nervously towards the door. “Steve, we must go."

Bucky stood him up, then, taking his weight and sneaking him out in shadow, slipping through the precise watches of the guards with an ease Steve did not have the energy to question.

*****

It seemed like hours later when they stumbled into the coach Bucky had waiting for them, Rebecca seated inside in shadow.

“We have only a few scant hours of darkness left. I will see to him while you drive.”

Steve did not remember much with certainty. He had only impressions of a kiss to his brow, the coach lurching into motion, the sound of hooves on packed dirt, and small hands gently pressing a waterskin and slices of fruit to his lips.

It was just after dawn when the coach slowed and then stopped, so deep under tree cover that the early morning sun struggled to shine through. 

“Is he well?” Bucky poked his head into the coach but remained on his perch at the forefront.

“ _I_ am awake. And well, thanks to your sister. And you.”

“Good. We’ll keep going, then.” 

Steve glanced to Rebecca, who gave no indication of upset at Bucky’s announcement; Steve took it upon himself to be the reasonable one of their band of fugitives. “What? Bucky—you must rest.”

“We must avoid capture more than I must rest. We will keep going. We must reach safety before the Queen’s guard reaches us.”

“Where is safety?” Steve couldn’t think of a place in Terre D’Ange that would harbor them.

“Out of Terre D’Ange. We cannot go back. We will find someplace, and make a home of it.”

Steve sat back and Bucky turned his attention to the road and had the coach rolling along the overgrown path in moments.

Out of Terre D’Ange. Steve had never left and he had never imagined he would. He would never see Sharon again, and the thought left him with a pit in his stomach and an itch in his eyes.

Out of Terre D’Ange. He was not sure he could manage. He was sure he would endure it if it meant he did not have to leave Bucky.

*****

"Is it because you spoke the _dromonde_?"

"No." 

Rebecca and Bucky's voices were low and lilting. They thought Steve was asleep; he'd taken himself to bed an hour previous and though he had been tired, Steve had gone to lay in their small tent and dwell on possibility rather than rest. After a day of travel and rescuing Steve the night before that, Steve was unsure how Bucky was still awake.

"But it is ill luck for a man to speak the future."

"It is far worse for D'Angelines to deny the law of their land. _Love as thou wilt_ , they say, and still their regent will sell her own son for political gain, heedless of the damage she will have wrought."

Rebecca hummed. "They say it more than they act upon it.  That is why we're the only family the other has, isn't it? Because mother loved a D'Angeline."

Silence stretched for several moments before Bucky's hushed response. "Yes."

"And still you love him. Think that you will escape the same fate."

"Still I love him. I know I will not escape the same fate."

"And my fate is to bear the lesson not one of you learned, is that it?"

"Rebecca—I don't—can't—"

"I know. I retire to bed, brother."

*****

Steve knew as well as any adept that many sought solace in pleasure when grieving or distraught.  Bucky woke Steve just before dawn and while Rebecca slept they snuck away for a short time. 

When Steve returned, Bucky staying behind to wash himself and gather water for the morning, Rebecca was awake, poking at the remains of their small fire, trying to coax it to life.

"You can warm yourself, if I can rouse it."

"I'm fine, Rebecca, thank you."

"This isn't easy for you." She met his gaze, finally. "This travel or what has been thrust upon you by the Queen."

"Your brother would risk his life for me and I cannot bring myself to stop him because I do not want to be without him. And yet you are kind to me."

Rebecca shrugged. "Bucky thinks the _dromonde_ is immutable."

"You do not think so?"

"I think the future is only certain if you do nothing to change it."

"You're very wise, for someone so young."

The humorless smile she gave him didn't seem to fit her small face.  "Experience ages you faster than years."

"You would give him up so easily?"

"I do what I can to change his fate but it is _his_ fate and up to him to alter." She gave Steve a sad smile then. "He has chosen you, between us." 

"That is not true." 

"Is it not? My mother loved a D'Angeline and it cost her not only her life, but her husband and daughters, too. Still he has not learned."

"It is not always a thing you choose, the one you love." 

"I know." She nodded to the west, where Bucky had appeared through the tree line. "I love him anyway, and will help you both, if I can."

Rebecca returned her attention to the fire, slowly coaxing it back to life, and said no more.

*****

They had been traveling for two days when the guards caught up to them.  

Bucky fought like a wild, cornered creature.  He had only a short blade for skinning and cooking but with it he was dangerous and managed to disarm one of the guards.  

Steve, terrified, inexperienced, and still weak from his imprisonment, found himself quickly overpowered and from his place on the ground, cheek pressed into the dirt, he struggled to break free while he watched Bucky redouble his efforts.  

He saw Bucky land and receive a number of blows; bleeding from a wound on one arm, his head, his leg.  A number of the guards had similar wounds and it wasn't until steel found his side that he stopped mid-attack; weapon falling from his fingers, a gasp escaping him as he crumpled to his knees.  

Steve was aware that someone was shouting for Bucky as he fought to break free.  The voice, desperate and strained was his own, he realized.  He broke free of his captors, a well-placed kick and panic-fueled surge launching him at Bucky's prone form.  

He was not a fighter; had been taught very little in his life but the guards found his rage sufficient to require several hands to hold him down and bind them both.  

A bag over his head was the last he saw of the world for a number of hours.  Bucky was a still and silent weight beside him in the guards' carriage.  He was breathing, Steve could feel it, but he hadn't woken.  He was still bleeding, warm wetness seeping slowly to soak the side of Steve's tunic where their bodies touched.   

*****

"This is not my favored way of conducting myself, you realize."  His mother's voice.  The bag was removed from his head and he could see the scowl he had already heard.  "I do not consider myself unreasonable or unnecessarily harsh."

"Where is he?"  He'd felt Bucky's removal from the carriage but did not see him anywhere in the throne room.  

"He is not your concern.  Had you done your duty as your queen—your  _mother_ —requested, I daresay he would be hale in his home."

"I don't want this.  He tried to save me from a fate I didn't desire."

"A prince does all manner of things he does not wish to for the sake of his country.  Do you not wish to do right by your people?"

"I wish to live my life free of this.  I am a free D'Angeline and—" 

"You are _not_ free.  Your marque is not yet finished and your first duty is to the throne.  That boy has committed treason and will be accordingly punished.  You will go to your marriage and serve your country."

Goosebumps prickled Steve's skin, the white-hot rage of injustice straightening his spine.  

"You gave me up as a babe to the first House that would have me! You were content to let me live my life an orphan and courtesan until such time as you found a use for me that you would not subject your other, more precious children to.  If I have no sense of duty to you it is of your own making."

"Your fate has been decided.  Your boy has chosen his own, at the will of the court."

Steve felt his blood freeze.  They would try Bucky and send him to the gallows, he knew. Common D’Angelines and Tsingani mingled far more freely than in centuries past, but there was no love between the Tsingani and the D’Angeline nobility. "No."

"He knew what it was he did."

"You can't—No."  The rush of blood in his ears was deafening, heart pounding a staccato beat.  "If you spare him, I will go."

"You will go regardless."

Steve set his jaw.  "I will escape.  I will tell the Skaldi prince the truth.  That I'm there against my will.  If you leave him in peace I will go willingly.  I will be the picture of D'Angeline grace."

Victoria de la Courcel set her lips in a firm line, and turned away.

*****

Steve did not see Bucky again, and by the end of the week he was traveling in a convoy of ambassadors and their guards to Skaldia.   

Bucky would be tried—a false trial, for a Tsingano—and put to death.  It would be done before Steve reached the confines of Odinson's palace.  

Bucky, who had only tried to help him, who of everyone Steve had had in his life had only ever told him the truth, who knew better than anyone what to say, would be cold and still in an unmarked grave for his trouble.  

 _Love as thou wilt_ _._ It might have been the way of Terre D'Ange but it was not the way of the D'Angeline Court.   

Hands bound, and under watch, he had no avenue for escape and he sat, head low and miserable as the countryside passed him by.   

His only comfort was the knowledge that Rebecca had escaped.  When they had been set upon she had been away from their camp and had been missed by the guards. 

By dark on their first night of travel they had left the city several leagues behind and crackling firelight danced shadows through the trees, swift and lithe and— 

—there was—  

—no.  

There was nothing.  Shadows and his mind playing tricks.

*****

Steve awoke in the middle of the night with a hand over his mouth.  

"You will come with me now, if you wish to spare him."  The words were brushed against his ear and his heart leapt in fear and hope.   

Only the stars shone, bright and distant, in the new moon and Steve strained to see the face that belonged to the low, smoky voice.  How she had gone undetected past the perimeter guards he didn't know and didn't care to find out.   

"Please—my hands."   

The ties came free efficiently and quietly; rope burns all that remained.  

"Quickly—and quietly—come.  We don't have long before your escape is discovered and we have a long way to travel."

Heart racing, he followed the shadow woman into the trees.  


	5. Phedre's Boys

Natasha, she called herself.  Not Tsingani, not D'Angeline.  Not anything she was willing to share. All that mattered, she told Steve, was that she knew Bucky, and so she came after Steve as soon as Rebecca had come to her, tear-streaked and panicked.  How she knew Bucky, she would not say.

"How do we free him?"

The look Natasha threw him was harried and streaked in pale starlight.  "We will need your help, though I hate to say it.  You must be taught the art of war, as best I can teach it to you in what time we have."

"We? He—Bucky's going to be put to death! We have no time!" 

Steve was on his back.  He wasn't sure how he ended up there, but Natasha stood over him and his ankles and backside stung.   

"He will be tried and then put to death.  We have some time, if less than I would like."

Steve pulled himself to his feet.  "What must I do? Who is we?"

Natasha swept her gaze over his face; calculating, judging, measuring.  "Trust me.  And don't let me sweep your feet out from under you again." She did not deign to answer his other question.

He thought of Sharon, then.   _You put your trust in too many and get too little in return.  It will cost you someday, brother_ _._ He hadn't seen her since he'd first met Victoria de la Courcel; when the Queen's men had taken him from the only home he'd ever known.  

Since he’d met Bucky, Sharon had become increasingly concerned; he was absent for longer periods, took fewer assignations, he was less forthcoming and more willing to lie.  Poorly.  She knew where he was spending his time and though she asked, he never told her anything of import.  

It was to protect her.  She had to have known that, but still he felt as though the wedge he drove between them a-purpose was lodged in his heart.  

Taking a shuddering, steadying breath, Steve nodded to Natasha.  "All right.  I trust you.  Teach me what I need to know to save him."

“I will teach you what you need in order to be the perfect distraction and defend yourself while I and…” she considered her next words a moment, “…others rescue him.

*****

It took only a day and a half to reach the home in which Natasha felt they’d be safe, hidden away in a forest so dense it was hard to traverse, even in daylight.

By week’s end, Steve had learned everything he needed, and he told Natasha as much.  

Natasha, who raised an eyebrow and regarded him for so long he felt the need to shift on his feet, before she finally replied with: "You're ready to take on a contingency of Casseline guards after a mere six days?  The same guards who vowed celibacy to spend more time practicing the art of war while you learned the finer points of pleasure?"

"I—" Steve straightened.  "I am willing to risk what harm may come to me, but we must rescue Bucky before they put him to death."

"I'm sure he would swoon at your rather romantic insistence, were he here."

"Natasha."  While his tone was one that always made Bucky's eyes dilate, Natasha barely bat hers.  "We must go now."

She sighed, rising to begin preparing an evening meal.  "No."  She set aside a small assortment of vegetables for Steve to chop.  "He will not be tried for some time, therefore he will not be put to death for some time."

"You can't know that."

"I do, actually." She motioned to the small pile of potatoes, carrots, and yams.  "We'll need these for stew tonight." 

"How do you know?"

"I have my ways."

" _How_ _?"_

"You may say you trust me, but you still need to have more faith in me.  I have my ways.  He will not be tried for some time."  Again she motioned to the pile of vegetables.  "Now, help me with supper."

*****

There was a pit in Steve's stomach that grew slightly larger with each day that passed.  Food did not fill it; water could not be poured into it.  The only thing that truly seemed to dull the ache that radiated from it was training with Natasha.  The focus required and the strikes landed and blocked: points of contact to draw his attention away if only for a short time.  

Rebecca had not reported anything of note.  Steve had fought Natasha their first three days together regarding the safety of Bucky’s sister.  Steve insisted she remain with them, now that her brother had been imprisoned and Rebecca was alone, or being watched by someone who might mean her harm.  

Natasha insisted Rebecca remain in Night's Doorstep.  A girl-child would be overlooked frequently and thus she was in a unique position to gather information where neither Steve nor Natasha were; dangerousness of the task be damned.

Natasha won out. With Rebecca’s wholehearted agreement, it turned out.

*****

"What is she doing?" Steve watched Rebecca carefully select a practice blade.

"Training." Natasha did not halt her warm-up routine. 

"She's twelve."

"And doing dangerous work. Would you not feel better for it if she knew how to defend herself?"

Natasha's tone, sweet and cajoling, had Steve sighing in defeat and frustration.

"Fine. You make a fair point. I do not have to like it, however."

"I would think you ill, if I saw that you enjoyed anything."

Steve huffed and focused on his warm-up.

He was willing to laugh at himself, but he was unwilling to give her the satisfaction over a matter so serious. 

He was finding Natasha to be worthy of his trust, and she was intelligent. She was witty and charming and could likely dismember him if she felt the desire.

Rebecca had stars in her eyes for Natasha and had for quite some time. Natasha was an acquaintance of Bucky's that visited on occasion. From what Steve could surmise, Natasha was everything Rebecca wanted to be when she was grown and was more inclined to listen to Natasha than Steve, in Bucky's absence.

How Natasha knew Bucky and what it was that came to pass when she visited him, Rebecca didn't know, or wouldn't share with Steve. 

He waited until after Rebecca took her leave of them for the city just after dusk and their evening meal to question Natasha.

"Why is it that Rebecca knows you, and trusts you so much, yet does not know the origin of your relationship with her brother?" 

Natasha shrugged. "She is his charge. She will know what he wants her to."

"And would he want her to be training so? Doing anything you're asking of her?"

"That decision is out of his hands. When he is again able to make such a decision, I anticipate he will allow it or put an end to it, as he sees fit."

"I am not Bucky's charge. How is it that you know him?"

She smiled, slow and full of teeth. "We are both adept at reading what is written in a person's fate.  And surviving. It has proved useful, and is easier when one is not alone."

"You are not Tsingani, but can use the _dromonde_?" 

"I cannot see the future, no." 

"But—" 

"His skill is in his blood and gives him visions of what may come to pass. Mine was beaten into me and left me particularly skilled at discovering what it is that you are made of and exploiting it."

"That does not tell me how it is you know him, merely why."

"If that's what you think, then Rebecca is already ahead of you."

She made to stand and clear her plate and Steve stopped her with a hand on her wrist. 

"Please."

"You are here because Rebecca deemed you important enough to Bucky to rescue. She asked me to rescue you because she trusts me most next to her brother. You have not yet earned enough of my trust for more of the story of the past I share with Bucky. In time, perhaps you will. With luck, you'll learn it from him."

Steve worked his jaw before he could bring himself to respond. "You have not yet earned my trust, either."

Breaking free of his grasp, she continued to their washbasin. "Of course I have. You are a terrible liar."

Steve sighed, sitting back in his chair. "I have no choice but to trust you. And it has not been misplaced."

"Then trust what I tell you, too: I am protecting both you and Rebecca. You do not see all the pieces in motion in this.  You must also trust I am making the moves we must to place us as close to success as we can expect to be." 

Steve nodded. "It is not easy."

"No it isn't." A sly smile curved the corners of her lips. "But I did manage to rescue you from the watch of no less than four Casseline guards without any trouble. Faith, Steve. Trust needs faith."

*****

For weeks, there was no news.  Even Steve's disappearance was absent from the lips of any Rebecca encountered.  Steve spent his days soaking up all that Natasha would teach him and practicing until his muscles burned from the effort.

He was in the garden when it happened, practicing the forms that Natasha said would bring stillness and clarity and make him a better, more focused combatant.  

The forms appeared to be for naught, when Rebecca burst through the tree line, vaulted the fence and launched straight into Steve.  Between her hysterical sobbing and ineffective punches to his chest he could make out none of her words, but it didn't matter; the pit in his stomach dropped out, leaving a gaping, ravenous maw.  

 _You said you would save him_ he finally heard her gasp into his damp shirt.   _You said you would **save him**_ _._  

She was utterly hysterical and Steve found himself gripping her as tight as she did him.  He felt his knees ready to give out and only duty to Rebecca kept him standing.  

Movement in his peripherals—Natasha—and he turned without moving his arms from where they were locked around Bucky's sister.   

"You asked me about faith."  Steve's voice was raw, accusing, and he didn't recognize it as his own.

Natasha stood stock-still, taking the sight of Steve and Rebecca, before turning on her heel and into the house without a word.  

It took him several minutes before he could force his legs to bear his weight. Steve carried Rebecca into the house, though she struggled against him. His chest felt as though it might explode and only by focusing on Rebecca’s grief did he keep himself intact. 

Only once he had seen to Rebecca’s care did he note Natasha’s absence.

She was not in the cottage, nor the yard. Steve made tea and served both he and a reluctant Rebecca. Still, Natasha did not return. He made a meal of stew that he did not taste and had even more difficulty convincing Rebecca to eat. Natasha still did not return.

Rebecca cried herself to sleep, tucked up into Steve’s side and only then did he allow himself to cry as well, clutching carefully to Rebecca’s sleeping form: the only thing he had left of Bucky.

He fell into a fitful sleep sometime in the night, hours after Rebecca’s breathing had finally leveled out, and long after Steve had cried himself still. It was because Steve refused to bend that Bucky had died. Steve had ignored Sharon and Sam and Victoria de la Courcel and Steve’s obstinance had cost Bucky his life.

Bucky, who had told Steve the moment they met that knowing Steve would be the death of Bucky and _still_ he persisted and did not turn Steve away, and Steve, too greedy to do aught else, would not separate himself for the sake of Bucky’s life.

They could have managed. If Steve had had sense enough to keep his distance. They could have become friends, and no more. Perhaps traded letters back and forth from their places in Night’s Doorstep and Skaldia.

Steve had not learned his place, had never known it, and he paid dearly.

If he could learn lessons at all, Bucky would still be breathing. They could have been amiable, distant.

 _No_ , something deep within him protested, shot through with steel and rage. The something that refused to bend, that had put them all here.

It was right.

It would have been strained and tense and painful to be at arms length from Bucky. Letters would have been tearful and filled with longing. They would have found themselves here at some point: one or both of them dead for loving the one another.

Rebecca shifted in her sleep, snuggled down closer and Steve clutched her the tiniest bit tighter. The last remaining part of Bucky and he would see her safe and cared for if that was all he had left to give Bucky and his memory.

***** 

When Steve woke, he was exhausted, face covered in tear-tracks, the sound of Bucky’s voice pleading for him in vain echoing in his ears.

He barely made it out of the cottage without disturbing Rebecca’s slumber before retching until he was heaving. 

If they had been more careful on the road out of Terre D’Ange. If they had made it to La Serenissima, or Alba, or Ch’in or—anywhere, they might have been left to their peace.

If Steve had not been so greedy. It was his fault. For all that he coaxed and bargained with Rebecca to eat the previous day, as much as he knew he would have to do the same today, Steve felt nausea settle deep into his bones. It was his fault Bucky was dead. Steve loved Bucky, he knew, though they hadn’t said it to one another. Steve did not love Bucky enough to save his life, and at the thought, he convulsed and dry heaved again, choking on tears and self-loathing.

From inside the cottage, he heard Rebecca call for him and he straightened, swallowing down his panic and anger. He had lost someone he might have had a future with, if they’d been lucky enough. Rebecca had lost her brother, the last of her family, and Steve would not make the mistake of putting himself before someone he loved again.

He called back, bright and cheery and utterly miserable, and began the long game of coaxing her to eat.

*****

It was not until nightfall that Natasha darkened their doorway, Steve coaxing Rebecca to eat despite his own nausea and disinterest. He straightened, waiting, placing himself between Natasha and whatever intangible blow she would deal to Rebecca with her news.

“Well?”

Natasha sighed. “It was not him.”

Rebecca beat him to a response, voice watery and wavering. “I saw him. It was him; you promised you’d save him and he’s dead.”

“He is not dead.” Natasha urged. “Heed my words. I have been to discover the truth and now that I have it, I’ve returned. Your brother lives, Rebecca, though not well and not for much longer.” Natasha met Steve’s eyes, then. “It was a ruse, to draw you out. We will not fall prey to it.”

“How do you know?” Steve spoke for Rebecca this time, her hand clutching the back of his tunic tight to keep her composure.

“Phedre’s Boys do not lie. Not to one of their own, about one of their own.” 

Rebecca's focus snapped up from her sullen staring to glare at Natasha. "What did you say?"

Steve couldn't tell if it was affront or hope or caution that colored Rebecca's voice.

"You heard me. I belong to the same fellowship your brother does."

It meant something to Rebecca, but Steve felt rather beyond his knowledge. "I don't follow."

Natasha sighed. "Phedre's Boys." 

Phedre's Boys. What had started out as sailors willing to fight for a courtesan-spy's cause became a small trio to whom Phedre no Delaunay trusted with her life to seek out information and help put a stop to plots against the throne. So said the legends. Steve did not think the cause had lived on past the deaths of her three most trusted chevaliers.

"I don't—but—"

"Did you think Phedre's Boys died with Ti-Phillipe? He saw to it that the cause lived on, in secret.” 

"Then the Queen knows of you. Of Bucky and his involvement?" Something that felt like hope, though far too fragile, bubbled up inside Steve's chest.

"No. I did say 'in secret', did I not? We are dedicated to protecting the crown, the country. We are separate from the crown and act with our own agency. She does not know who we are, merely that there is a force within Terre D’Ange she may call on in times of need when even her armies are not enough.” 

“Then why do you help me?”

“And in this, she is not right. _Love as thou wilt_ is the will of Blessed Elua and it is not within her power to deny it. Terre D’Ange almost fell once because of a regent willing to ignore Elua’s decree. She is not wrong to want to strengthen relations between Skaldia; she is wrong to demand you be the tool she uses.” Natasha smiled. “Most of all, though, we assist you because Bucky is one of us.”

"So they do not know that he is one of your number. "

"No. And it will keep him safe. My contacts within the Court are keeping me informed. He is not dead. It was a plot to draw you out. We must stay hidden. " 

"Prove it. " He had to be sure. He would not hope, would not let Rebecca hope falsely.

A piece of parchment was produced. On it, was the phrase _For me, the Long Road leads to you_ in shaky, broken penmanship. Steve felt the air rush out of his lungs. Bucky was alive. 

Bucky was— "Why have you not rescued him then, if you can ferry word from him?" 

"It is too well guarded, and he is not well enough for what would lie between he and his freedom. We must wait until the opportune moment. "

***** 

It was not quite six weeks since Steve had met her that Natasha called a meeting, using Rebecca to send word to all of her contacts. Steve insisted that Rebecca should not be in attendance. Natasha, calm and finite, informed him Rebecca would be present.

The first to arrive was Timothy, the man Steve recognized from The Stars and Plow.  Without Bucky there, Timothy was a far more imposing presence.

"You better be worth what he's given, " was all Timothy said after several moments of silent staring.

Steve felt his throat tighten and his eyes prick; upset and indignation blurring his vision. "How could I possibly be? For all my value to the Queen, it pales in comparison to his to me.  Would that I could trade places with him. What he has done, what he has laid at my feet, I can only hope to return in kind."

"Take my word, if you won't take his," came a familiar voice through the doorway. "They are well matched in their affection. The only fault in this is the Queen's, and Dahlia House. _Love as thou wilt_ is the will of Elua; Bucky and Steve pay the price of someone else's sin. "

Sam. Sam was there and Steve felt as though he could cry with relief and confusion.

"Sam? You're—you're one of Phedre's Boys?"

Sam smiled wide and bright, placing a gentle, calming hand on Steve's shoulder that reminded him of Sharon and filled him with relief that she was not involved. It was too dangerous and he had already risked too many people he loved for his selfishness.

"Since I was little. I was first an adept of Dahlia House before Balm House bought my marque when I was eight. By that time, I had already begun my training as one of Phedre's Boys."

Steve turned to Natasha then, realization climbing slowly up his spine. "Did you all start that young?"

She shrugged. "I did." 

Steve's eyes landed on Rebecca as she joined them, a muscular blond man who walked with something both dangerous and irreverent in his step following behind her. 

"Then it is not just that she is helpful."

Rebecca smiled, lifting her chin in defiance.  "He would be proud that I am joining the order."

Steve groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "How can I keep you safe now?" He sounded more miserable than he intended.

Timothy harrumphed. "She won't need you to, once she completes her training. "

"That's not the point. The point is that she's his sister and he looked after her. All I can do until we get him back is look after her as he would. He might be proud, but I think he would worry and I—" Steve stopped himself from adding _I can't lose you too, you're all I have of him._

She seemed to understand nonetheless and he wondered if she possessed any of the gift Bucky did, or if she was just unusually perceptive for a child of her age.

Crossing to him, Rebecca laid a small hand on his shoulder and squeezed, letting him reach up and hold onto her hand for as long as it took him to calm his mind.

Natasha surveyed each of the people in front of her, gaze finally landing on the blond man. "Where is Barbara?"

He shrugged.

"Clinton."

He shuffled backwards, tripped, and turned the fall into a graceful collapse into a chair. "I'm not her keeper. "

Natasha hummed. "Then you have a great number of us fooled. "

Clinton huffed and said no more. 

*****

It was another half hour before everyone Natasha expected had arrived.

The woman named Barbara was beautiful, with an air of danger about her one could not ignore nor feel the need to tempt. Men Timothy seemed to know as comrades-in-arms: a man named Gabriel and two men named James and another named Jacques.

Natasha glanced to Sam. "You will inform the rest of the plans we make tonight."

Sam smiled, slow and wide and sweet. "Wrong House, but yes, Natasha, I will."

It was the first time Steve had ever seen Natasha so much as smirk and he was utterly sure it was Sam's gentle nature that had earned him Natasha's affection.

Timothy unrolled one map, then another, one a detailed rendering of the city square and another that encompassed the city and the land and forest beyond the city walls. 

"Once we're out of the city we'll keep to the woods, traveling at a distance from paths. Move in pairs on separate routes to our safe house," Timothy began. 

"Which is where?" Steve realized this was not the group’s first meeting regarding Bucky’s rescue. “Why am I only joining in your plans now?”

Natasha stepped in before Timothy could reply.  "You are our distraction, you have not been necessary in the earlier stages of our plans. The doctor's location must remain secure. You have not trained as we have, the information would not be safe with you, Steve. You will travel with someone who knows the way. As will Bucky."

Steve set his jaw and put all of his effort into responding only to Natasha’s comment about the doctor. "And if we're separated? Do I wander lost until I stumble upon the right place or one of you finds me?" 

"This is for his safety, Steve." Just as Sam knew how to calm Steve, so too did Sam know the words to move him. "No one will be separated. If any are discovered, we will be slain."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. "If that's all, shall we proceed with planning?"

It wasn't a question though she phrased it as such, and Steve nodded, not trusting his voice. 

"I'll be here." Clinton pointed to a building to the east of the city square.  "I'll have the sun behind me and the best cover the area affords us."  

"They'll bring him in just before midday. Once Clinton creates a distraction with my help, it will be up to Natasha and Timothy to retrieve Bucky from the executioner. The rest of you will create a barrier between the Casseline guards and Natasha, Timothy and Bucky."  Barbara was not taking suggestions, it seemed. 

One of the two men introduced as James spoke then, Alban accent curling around his vowels.  "There won't be enough of us to hold them off for long."

Clinton flashed a dangerous, flippant smile.  "Better be quick on your feet, then."

"Run? The plan is to run?" Steve had hoped Phedre's Boys would have had enough experience between them to have a better plan than that.

"And what would _you_  suggest?"  The other man named James waited with a twist to his lips.  Steve wondered if he didn't have Ch'in ancestry.

He stared at both maps, letting the silence stretch.  Aside from those present, Natasha had said they could count on a handful of others; not quite two dozen people, all told.

"We won't beat word of the rescue to the main gates to the city walls.  Is there not another way out?"

"The Tsingani will help their own."  Rebecca.  Steve had forgotten Rebecca was there and felt all over again the disquiet at having her involved at all.  

"Can you ensure none will speak of this, no matter the price?"  Natasha pinned her with a look that was every inch the assignment of a test.  

"Yes.  I will go to them once you finish mapping your plan and alert them.  They will ensure the gate is of no consequence to you." 

Steve felt sick.  How could he protect her if she was throwing herself in head first?  "Rebecca—"  

"He is my brother.  You might be starting to love him.  I have loved him all my life.  It is my choice and I will help in the saving of him."  She didn't shift, but she had planted herself firm nonetheless and for it, Steve was proud and terrified.  

"So be it."

She nodded, and turned back to the maps. 

"So the gate is secured."  Sam broke the silence.  "Did you have a better idea for getting there?"  

Steve shook his head.  "Just—if we have to run, the narrowest streets with the fewest intersections."

Barbara smiled.  "Exactly."  She glanced to Natasha.  "Not bad."

Natasha nodded.  "He's a quick study.  How he performs when it's not practice has yet to be seen."

Steve grimaced.  "Thanks."

"We'll need to spread out, with so few of us.  One for every half-hour on the clock face." Clinton waved, jabbing a finger at various points on the map of the city as he spoke.  "Sam here, Steve, Natasha, Timothy...there, there, and here."  Once he'd assigned everyone present, he began reciting numbers.  "...and Thirteen will be in this sector. “

Sam nodded.  "They'll get the message."

"Who are these other people?"  Steve hadn't heard a name or a House mentioned—or anything else, for that matter.  

"Other members, whose identities we must protect at all costs."  Natasha laid a stack of domino masks on top of the maps.  "As we will our own."

The masks were soft velvet and Steve wondered how well they would work to disguise their identities.  

He waited until it was only he, Natasha, and Rebecca present to voice his concerns.  "Will the masks really hide who we are? Will this even _work_?"

Natasha smiled, lips curling in amusement.  "Steve, I thought you would wait until Rebecca was out of earshot."

"It's a little late to be keeping things from her now.  She and I will be having that discussion regardless.  Answer me: do you think it will work?" 

Natasha sat, considering an apple before taking a bite.  She made Steve wait under her gaze until she had swallowed to answer.  "If we don't, he dies.  If we try, he might not.  That is the best I can offer you.  The masks will suffice.  Are you comforted?"  Another bite.

"It  _infuriates_  me.  Why wait so long to rescue him when the odds will be stacked so high against us?  Why not now?  Why not _earlier_?"

"You know the belladonna plant, do you not?"

"Yes."

Natasha smiled, shark-like.  "Then you know why it is so dangerous; sweet and beautiful and deadly."

Steve sighed.  "The day of his execution, then.  So be it. You know it will be a trap, do you not?”

“Of course it is. But he has not broken despite their best tortures; he will not tell them what he has seen for the future if the marriage takes place. And he has not spoken a word of Phedre’s Boys, though they suspect we lent you aid, they have not yet realized he is one of us. “

“Then why would his execution be real this time, if it was not last time?” 

Natasha glanced to Rebecca and raised an eyebrow, who huffed and took herself off to the front porch.

“It will be real this time because he spoke the _dromonde_ , but did not give them what they were hoping for. “ She smirked. “My contact tells me that he spit in their faces and told them the only way they would know the result of the betrothal would be if they cut him open and read their futures from his innards. Something tells me they took him at his word.”

Steve blanched and turned abruptly towards the door Rebecca had left through. "I would speak with you."

The rise of Rebecca’s eyebrow was nothing short of identical to her brother’s and it made Steve's heart ache.  She followed him nonetheless.

He waited until they had both taken a seat in the back garden to speak.  "Why would you do something so dangerous? You are too young to know what it means—they all were." 

Rebecca pinned him with a look that made Steve wonder again if she too could use the  _dromonde_ to see the future.  "You are not my brother.  Nor are you my father." 

"No, but I—" 

"—But you think because you love my brother you will serve penance for what you have caused by trying to protect me." 

Steve put his head in his hands.  "You are spending too much time with Natasha." 

"I'm rather enjoying myself."  He could hear the smile in her voice.  "And I daresay I'm good at it." 

Steve huffed a sigh and straightened.  "You are."  He looked her over carefully: soft brown ringlets and eyes the same stormy blue as her brother’s, a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks and a round and childish set to her features.  "And you are right. I will not stand in your way, if this is your will.  But you must let me protect you where I can."

She placed a small hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him and he would have laughed if it hadn't worked.  "If Bucky does not survive, I will remain with Natasha, and you will go where you will to start your life over.  She has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, as a friend of Bucky's."  She squeezed his shoulder.  "I am sorry.  I cannot give you the solace you wish from me."

Steve did laugh then, low and self-deprecating and hysterical at the edges.  "Bucky may have taught you the worth of your words, but Natasha is teaching you how to wield them as a weapon.  I do not doubt that you will be truly fearsome when you have grown."  

He stood then and thanked her and took himself to bed, heartsick and heavy with the truth of what Rebecca had said, terror and longing for Bucky roiling under his skin.

Two days, and they will have saved Bucky, or sacrificed themselves alongside him.


	6. The Long Road Leads To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of torture.

Steve felt bile rising in his throat and it was then, standing in the city square awaiting Bucky's sentencing, that he appreciated Natasha’s insistence on mastering inner stillness.

 _Much as he draped himself in falsehoods as easily as he sold them, so he will be stripped of them_ , came the words of the executioner.

Steve shuddered.  They were going to skin him alive.

He would not die immediately, so Steve would have time to save him.

He would not die immediately, so he would have to bear the unspeakable pain of his sentence. So that he would have to bleed to death.

It had been difficult enough when Steve had thought him dead the first time: a ploy devised to lure Steve from hiding once he thought Bucky dead.

He thought of Natasha’s counsel, then: _It is too well guarded, and he is not well enough for what would lie between he and his freedom. We must wait until the opportune moment._

This could not have been the opportune moment, there had to have been a better time before this that they had not seen. And their miscalculation would be the death of Bucky.

"Steve. Are you ready? We will get one chance."

Heart in his throat, he nodded.

All the members of Phedre’s Boys that Steve had met merely two days previous were interspersed in the crowd per their plan, as well as several more he had not met that Natasha ensured him were in attendance. Once the execution began, a diversion would be created and Bucky would be rescued and brought to the care of a man named Bruce at a location Natasha did not deign to share with Steve.  

Steve thumbed the soft domino mask in his pocket.  He'd not needed practice tying it but did wonder still at how well it would mask their identities when the time came.

He did not wonder for long.

Bucky was led in like a dog, stumbling and beaten and battered, to the center of a large tarp draped over the hangman's staging in the city square.  A hand on his shoulders forced him down and he dropped to his knees; the grace that was so much a part of Bucky now gone.  He was emaciated, a mess of wounds and injuries that, if they weren't festering, were fresh and bright and bleeding.  His hair was lank and unwashed, eyes glassy with pain and resignation.

He did not think they would save him.  He did not think Steve would come for him.   

So distracted by cataloging Bucky's injuries, Steve did not see the executioner raise his knife.  He did see Bucky's eyes widen and water; saw the scream before Bucky loosed it from behind his teeth and shook Steve to the core with the sound.  Even as his scream tapered off Steve could hear him whimpering, seeming to form a name with the inarticulate sounds Steve recognized as his own.  

The air in Steve's lungs were driven out as if by a battering ram to the chest, his blood beating in his ears loud enough to drown out everything but Bucky's desperate, pained cries and the steady drip of his blood beginning to pool on the tarp.  

There was a plan.  Carefully formulated for the safety and success of rescuers and rescued.  

Steve could not remember a moment of the plan and instead launched himself through the crowd, eyes fixed on Bucky: pitching forward in agony even as the executioner reached for him to peel another strip of flesh from his bones; a hunter skinning his meal.   

It might have been Natasha shouting for him, even as Bucky screamed again, voice straining, back arching away from the knife and the skin peeled away.  

Steve managed to fight past two guards thanks to Natasha’s training, but by the time he reached the hangman's staging, the executioner was beginning to peel a third strip from Bucky's back; Bucky whose eyes were rolling, tears and sweat making grimy rivers down his face and throat.  

Vaulting onto the staging, Steve did not have to think long about how best to combat the executioner as an arrow struck the man clean through his skull and he fell, sending a heavy shudder through the aged wooden platform.  

Spinning on his heel he caught Bucky by the chest, too fearful to touch his back, hauling him upright before he could fall face-first onto the tarp and into the pool of blood in which he was kneeling.  

The plan.

They had had a plan and Steve had thrown it to hell the moment he heard Bucky scream and now it was chaos in the street around them, spectators screaming and running and guards rushing up to reach Steve, only to be waylaid by Phedre's Boys.  

The coppery, thick stench of blood was enough to nauseate him, and with a swift kiss of apology to the top of Bucky's head, Steve hauled him to his feet, pressing his back to Steve's chest in a vain attempt to staunch some of the bleeding.  Bucky cried out, high and keening, head lolling back on Steve's shoulder as Steve hurried to escape the platform and the crowd.  

Natasha was clearing a path towards freedom on the ground below.  Another handful of steps and Steve would be off the staging and down in the crowd.   

"St-Steve?" Weak and wavering and hoarse but _Bucky_.  Steve could have cried with relief to hear his voice.  

"I thought you were dead. We're going to save you.  I'm going to save you—"

There was a pain in his side, deep and sharp and sapping his strength and Steve looked down to see the short handle of a dagger protruding from his abdomen.  Gritting his teeth, Steve took another step, and another, and felt again the same sharp, deep pain, this time in his leg, and he felt his knee buckle.   

Bucky sagged in his arms despite his efforts and he struggled to the edge of the staging.  He could not make the jump down, could not make the steps.  More guards were pouring in from side streets and though there were a number of Phedre's Boys in the melee, there were far too many guards for them to take on and keep a perimeter around Steve and Bucky.

Catching the attention of Barbara and Sam, Steve forced Bucky into their care, shouting over their protests and shoving helping hands away.  They did not have time and every moment spent arguing was another moment closer to Bucky's recapture and death.  

Over Sam's protests, Barbara nodded grimly to Steve, and pulled Sam along even as she took on most of Bucky's weight.  

Natasha was approaching from the east, sun glinting fire on her head, but she would not be fast enough; the heavy-booted shudder of guards' feet on the staging behind him had him turning away from the determined set of Natasha's features and towards the grim smiles of the guards.  

Setting his teeth in what felt like a gruesome parody of a grin, Steve pulled a dagger of his own from its place at his hip and prepared himself for the first blow.   He had trained enough with Natasha that he was fairly confident he could give almost as good as he got. 

They only landed a handful of strikes, several more than Steve was able, before a tall figure swept the legs out from under one guard, and elbowed the other in the temple so hard he fell and did not rise.  

Tall and golden and— "Sharon?!"  

With a precisely placed blade, the first guard joined his compatriot in a still heap on the staging.  

"One thing you will never outgrow is your penchant for trouble."

"How—"

Winding her arm through his, she hoisted him to his feet, taking as much of his weight as she could.  "Later.  Right now I need to get you out of here in one piece."  She studied his face as she hobbled him towards their escape route, ignoring the chaos surrounding them for the moment.  "Nice mask."

He had forgotten it.  If the guards rose, they would know it was him that had rescued Bucky.  That it was him they were looking for, and redouble their efforts. 

"I don’t—" He stopped himself from finishing in favor of swallowing bile and a hiss of pain at the shift of weight as he walked.  

"Later."

*****

Who aided Sharon in carrying Steve to safety, he could not say. Nor where he was, nor how long he lay unconscious from blood loss while Bruce and Sam worked to stitch his injuries.  

What he did know was that he had not seen Bucky since Steve had attempted to rescue him and then given him over to Barbara and Sam's care.  

Attempting to sit and orient himself produced a shot of pain and pull of skin and so he settled for only shifting his head.  

A small room, with one westward-facing window, a small bedside table, the bed he was in, and a crutch leaned against a high table that was stocked with a number of items: an empty tray, a carafe of water, various squat, round jars with salves and poultices, and all manner of medical tools.  

He was alone, only indistinguishable voices from beyond the closed door, too faint to make out whether he knew them or not.  

It was unlikely he had been taken back to the palace.  Prince or trophy or political pawn or not, Steve was fairly certain his actions would not have garnered such hospitality.   

He was with friends, then.  And if he was with friends, then he did not need to fear leaving his bed.

It took him several minutes in which he bit down on a number of curses, but Steve eventually stood and made it to the crutch.  Fitting it under his left arm, he took several experimental steps before feeling confident enough to make his way down the hall.  

Sam, Barbara, Bruce, Natasha, Clinton, and Sharon sat around a table nearly too small for them, voices hushed and hurried and emotive.  No one noticed him yet.  Steve leaned against the near wall carefully; the short walk had sapped much of his energy and he wanted to brace himself for the onslaught he was about to unleash.

"Where's Bucky?"

Six pairs of eyes narrowed at him but all deferred to Sharon, it seemed, as the silence stretched.

"His prophecy may yet come to pass."

Steve felt lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss.

"Where is he?"

Though Sharon opened her mouth, Sam spoke over her, firm and skeptical. "If we move your bed into the same room, will you promise to stay in it?"

A number of protests died on Steve's tongue. "Yes. Please."

With only a nod to Clinton, Sam rose and moved down the short hall.

*****

The room Bucky was in was nearly the same size as the one Steve had been in and their beds were wedged almost flush against each other to fit them in the space with just enough room to walk in and out on either side. 

Which was fortunate; at the sight of Bucky, Steve felt his legs give out and he steadied himself on the edge of his bed.

He was lying on his stomach, back exposed save for the thick, white bandages covering the expanse of his upper back where the skin had been stripped off. Even still there was a faint dampness to them, blood seeping through slowly despite the efforts of Bruce and Sam.

There were precious few places on what of Bucky's body Steve could see that weren't bandaged or smeared with a salve, packed in with a poultice. 

Steve sat down heavily on his own bed, dreading to disturb Bucky, and watched. It took several long moments of near panic before Steve realized Bucky was still breathing, though slow and shallow.

It was his fault. If he had gone to his fate with dignity, with grace, though he hadn't wanted to, Bucky would be whole and hale.

"One could argue that you aren't technically in bed."  Sharon's voice came quiet and sad from the doorway behind him.  

Steve's smile fell short of anything but a grimace.  "It's my fault.  If I had—"

"—If you had done as you were asked it would have been against everything you've ever believed and I'm proud you refused.  Bucky knew what would happen, before any of us did, and he didn't turn away.  I'm proud of him for that, too."

"And what good has it done him?"

Sharon took a seat next to Steve, careful not to disturb his bed more than necessary.  "He's as stubborn as you, in his own way.  I had tried to warn him, but—"

That's right.  Sharon was there.  She was _there_.  Had saved him.  "—What are you doing here? How? Wh—I don't understand."

"Phedre's Boys."  

 _Phedre's Boys_.  The phrase had been used by way of an answer far too often of late for Steve's liking.  

"You're one of them?"

She nodded.  "Since I was young.  There was a reason the Dowayne decided I would be your sister.  Nicholas is far too canny to have only one face and he knew though the Queen surrendered you to him as a babe, that she would come calling when she had use for you."

"So never siblings, blood or no.  Merely a task."

"Watching over you was the first task ever assigned to me, as one of Phedre's Boys.  Being your sister was a foregone conclusion after only a day with you.  It might have been my job to look over you, but it was one I took on as a personal obligation, and with much love."

Steve swallowed once, twice.  Tried to steady his voice.  When he felt he could not, he leaned carefully to rest his temple on her shoulder.  "What now?"

Her fingers stroking gently through his hair—as she had ever done when he was younger and sick, or fearful of his dreams, or agitated—was her only response for several long minutes.  

When she spoke, it was a whisper, but one laid with steel and in it, Steve took strength.  "Now we keep you safe until you're both hale enough to travel." 

There was a spike of something unsteady and anxious in Steve's gut but Sharon's hand through his hair never faltered and it calmed him.  "What do you mean, travel?"

"You cannot stay here.  You'll both be hunted; he for his head and you for your hand.  We are arranging means by which the three of you will travel, and a home in which to start over."

He had forgotten and he felt sick for it.  This time, Sharon's hand did not keep him still and he sat up to see her face.  "Rebecca.  Where is she?" 

"Safe.  In La Serenissima with Anthony." 

"Another one of Phedre's Boys?"

A wry smile.  "Interestingly, no.  He is great benefactor of our cause, however. I suspect he and Rebecca are getting along well; they're both irrepressible and entirely tireless."

Steve could only nod.  Rebecca was safe, and for it he was endlessly grateful.  Bucky was still in danger, and Steve felt an empty pit in his stomach steadily growing deeper and wider.  Steve would likely never see Sharon again and his head ached with the effort to keep his eyes from watering.  

Sharon squeezed his hand. "I'll let you sleep.  You need to rest, and now that we've moved you in here, I don't expect I'll see you up and about for several more days." She raised an eyebrow, punctuating her point.  

Heedless of the pull or sting of his stitches, Steve pulled her into a tight embrace, squeezing her as close as he could.  "I have not deserved you."

She hummed.  "Would that I could have done more.  Rest, my lionheart."  

Brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead she returned to the others, leaving Steve to watch over Bucky silently while he waited for sleep that he knew would not come.

***** 

It was not until mid-morning the following day that Bucky's eyes finally opened, though he had been shifting and making soft sounds from time to time for the better part of a day. The relief that flooded through Steve felt as though it were a tidal wave.

"Steve?" Hesitant and groggy and hoarse but _alive_. 

Steve placed a gentle hand on Bucky's arm. "Be still. You're safe. You're—you're alive."

A weak smile twitched the corners of Bucky's lips, flickered in his eyes. "Rebecca?"

"Safe. Waiting for us in the place we'll call home, once you're hale enough for the journey." 

Bucky hummed—amusement, acknowledgement, exhaustion. "And you?" 

"Worried about you."

"I have had much practice in Night's Doorstep besting gambling men. Death is the same as those men, though his coin is different." 

"I would prefer it, if the future, if you did not wager a thing so precious to me." 

"You are worth the risk." Bucky sighed, exhaustion and relief tingeing his tone.

"Rest." Steve smoothed Bucky's hair back from his face. "We have a Long Road to travel together once you're well, and sisters to beg forgiveness of."

Bucky grasped Steve's hand as it fell away from his face. With a smile Steve settled as close as he could without disturbing Bucky.

In Bucky's small, answering smile, Steve found hope enough to carry him through.

 


End file.
